


'Tis the Vermin's Will

by Your_Bones



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: ? - Freeform, Canon-Typical Violence, Discussion of Abortion, Lactation, M/M, Medical Horror, Mentions of child sexual abuse, Mpreg, Other, Slow Build, again idk how severe it is but better safe than sorry, gore mention, graphic birth, ish, junkrat and roadhog are objectively terrible parents, more to be added probably - Freeform, not super gross but like if you're already freaked out by that stuff you're warned, the world's longest sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2018-09-10 19:22:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 33,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8933578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Your_Bones/pseuds/Your_Bones
Summary: “Well? Say something, you fat fuck!” Junkrat grabs Hog’s shirt and gives it a rough pull, feigning like he could actually intimidate someone three times his size. He’s stopped smiling, his eyes going wide and buggy as he yanks on Roadhog’s t-shirt helplessly. “It’d be a real hoot, don’cha think?!” For a few seconds, he just freezes there, this awful, pleading look on his face. ‘Tell me it’s funny’, it begs. Still, Roadhog stays quiet, letting Junkrat grab and paw at him but not moving a muscle. Finally, the kid forces one last pained grin, leaning on Roadhog until he’s resting his forehead on his collarbone.“...I don’t wanna die."





	1. Chapter 1

This city’s for tossers, Junkrat’s decided. Idiots and tossers. It’s cold, it rains day and night, and every single person has a stick so far up their ass that nothing might ever dislodge it. The street’s lined with a steady trickle of them, taking a wide berth around Junkrat and his bodyguard as they march sluggishly downhill. He watches his surroundings, his eyes always sweeping the crowd for flashing lights and starchy uniforms.

“Quit it. You look suspicious.” Roadhog elbows him lightly, jostling him a little. Junkrat has to grab the bastard’s arm and stumble to regain his footing-- no matter how he tries to get used to it, this flimsy new prosthetic always feels like it’s seconds away from giving out on him.

“Yer mug is suspicious, but you don’t hear me complain’.” Sure, he still insists on hiding behind a bandana and shades, doesn’t stop him from being ugly. Junkrat’s tone is sharp and bitter, his good hand automatically curling under his stomach for balance as he wobbles forward. The big guy grunts, though he doesn’t let Junkrat fall. He never does anymore. Junkrat actually kinda misses it.

The hike is slow and painful, his whole frame weighing heavy and making Junkrat hobble miserably. But damn it, anything’s better than that suffocating little room! He’s been losing his mind in there, peeling paper off the walls and dismantling the light fixtures just to keep himself busy. Junkrat wasn’t made to stay in one place this long, especially not someplace so small and so empty.

“Where’re we going, anyway? This another one of your stupid ideas?” Roadhog’s tone is so flat and dim that Junkrat doesn’t even have to look his way to know that he’s rolling his eyes. That’s the problem with the old man, Junkrat thinks; he’s got a small mind and an unambitious way of looking at things.

“Eh, I’m figurin’ something out. Lotsa irons in the fire, Piggy, lotsa big plans in the works.” He make a grand gesture with his good hand, cackling as he shoves away from Roadhog and strides ahead carelessly. “I’ll need PVC, some good metal nails, some of that, uh…” Glancing around, Junkrat just barely manages to censor himself, giggling excitably. “ _Homemade adhesive_ ‘a mine. Yanno, for our ‘buildin’ project’?”

“Yeah, I get it.” See? None of that joy or relish in the lug’s voice! How does Junkrat put up with him?

He scoffs and makes a jump down from the sidewalk to the street, actively ignoring Roadhog’s warnings behind him. It feels so good to be outside! To be part of the world again-- and back in his element, getting ready to burn it all down. He aims to jog across the street to the crosswalk, but when he puts his right foot down, he hears a splitting metallic squeal. His leg folds uselessly underneath him, and his whole body goes hurtling down with it. First his bad arm connects to the ground, the shock of the impact on the metal palm shooting up through the remaining bone, skidding forward uselessly and failing to catch his weight. His head smacks into the asphalt a moment later, not hard by _his_ standards but enough to have him seeing stars. For a minute, he’s dazed, not so much hurting as stunned, lying there in a tangle of limbs and metal.

“Rat! Damn it, I fucking told you…” Roadhog’s beside him almost immediately, gingerly grabbing his shoulder to check that he’s still conscious before trying to gather up his remaining arms and leg. Traffic has to stop for him-- a guy his size could wreck a truck if they hit him-- and he shows no signs of flinching. So much for not making a scene, eh?

“S’fine… I tol’ya that leg’s a piece of crap, it never fit right, it…” Junkrat’s voice trails off as Roadhog’s hand roams over his skin, tracing the bruises on his arm and temple before coming to rest heavily on his stomach.

That’s what’s fucking with him, Junkrat thinks. He’s not used to this kind of gentle handling, the nagging suspicion that someone, hypothetically, might actually give a shit whether he makes it or not. And he knows it’s all because of this _parasite_. He misses the casual shoves and light punches, the way Roadhog never apologized and he didn’t either. They were partners, evenly matched, the brains and the brawn, and all the scuffles and threats were just part of how they worked.

But it isn’t like that anymore! Now Roadhog treats him like he’s made of glass, despite being the one to prove otherwise on several occasions. (He didn’t think Junkrat could survive that kind of blow to his skull back in Oz, but he didn’t know Junkrat well enough, did he?) They’re not living for the chase, they’re just surviving, and Junkrat thought he was done with that shit when he left Australia.

He shifts uneasily against Roadhog’s hold, making a childish, irritable noise when the big guy lifts him up against his chest effortlessly.

“We’re going back,” Roadhog states flatly. When the hell did this mook start giving orders? Junkrat cusses and struggles, getting a good hit in on Roadie’s fat jaw, but his heart’s not really in it. He knows he won’t strike back.

“What about me work, huh? I’m almost outta supplies, me wiring’s gone to shit, I need--”

“How far you think you’re gonna get on that leg?” Roadhog grunts, hiking Junkrat up and turning back toward the motel. He slips past the crowd and onto a quiet, narrow street, still ignoring all of Junkrat’s attempts to kick or sock him. “Making a scene like that… probably have to get moving again.”

“Now you’re talkin’! What’re you thinking? Dorado? Tokyo? Ohh, we could do some real damage in Numbani! You heard they’re lettin’ Omnics be cops now? Fuckin’--” Junkrat sputters when Roadhog jostles him; if he’s gotta go through with this humiliating bridal-style display, can’t he at least do it right?!

“Too many cameras, too many posters. We gotta disappear, Jamison, not make it worse.” Roadhog shakes his head, sighing. “If you were more mobile, we could…” He swallows, squeezing Junkrat’s shoulder uneasily. “Let’s just hurry and pack up.”

Shoving away from the big guy, Junkrat squirms and carries on until he gets his real foot on the ground. He can get around with a bum leg, he’s done it for weeks at a time. At this point, he just wants whatever dignity he can get. To his credit, Roadhog doesn’t complain, quietly putting a hand on his shoulder for balance but letting him lead the way again.

“So what? We disappear to another town in the middle ‘a bumfuck nowhere? Pretend we don’ exist and let people forget that we do?” Junkrat spits, wrinkling his nose at the very thought.

“That’s _exactly_ what we do.” Roadhog took a low, ragged breath. “We’ve got no choice: it’s either find a better place now or end up in prison. There’s no outrunning anything when you’re--”

“Don’t you dare.” Just _mentioning_ it makes Junkrat’s skin crawl. He knows good and well what kind of mess he’s gotten himself in, and he doesn’t need the old man reminding him all the damn time! Muttering under his breath, he fumbles angrily with the motel door (then snatches the keycard out of Roadhog’s hand when he offers it) and storms inside.  
  
“I’m gonna lose my bloody mind, Hog!” Junkrat’s voice breaks a little as he crows. “Nothin’ to take apart, nothin’ to blow up-- it ain’t right for a guy like me! I crave simulation.”

“Stimulation.” The big guy sits down on the half-flattened bed, clearly making it a point not to argue anymore. God, Junkrat hates when he does this-- just pretends like he knows what’s best and waits for Junkrat to wear himself down. Well he can stay pissed forever! He never wears down!

Standing over the bed, he glowers at Roadhog, gesturing wildly as he snaps. “Just gimme a damn clue, then! What’m I supposed ta do? The hell do these boring drongos _do_ all the time?!”

“You could watch TV, get better at reading, fix that prosthetic…” With a soft snort, Roadhog adds, sarcastically. “Write your memoirs.”  
  
“You know what? Yeah! Yeah, I can do that!” Junkrat decides to run with this, if only to spite the old man. He grins, clambering onto the bed and draping his arm over as much of Roadhog’s massive shoulders as he can. “Just watch, I’m gonna _educate_ the world! The life and times of the magnificent, unstoppable Jamison Fawkes!”


	2. Chapter 2

“...So what’s it supposed to say?” Roadhog holds the crumpled motel notepad out at arm’s length, trying to piece together the scattered lines and misshapen letters into something cohesive. While technically literate, Junkrat writes like a demented five-year-old, and Roadhog has neither the patience nor the energy to try and decipher all this.

“Can’t you read? It’s me name, an’ then somma the boring stuff about where I was born and all.” Junkrat squirms, leaning on Roadhog with all his weight and looking up at him impatiently.

It’s stupid, but if he’s serious about this memoir idea, it might actually keep him occupied for a while. That’s just how the little guy’s brain works-- he can focus on weird, specific things, but only in short bursts and only if he focuses so intently that he basically forgets everything else. Maybe this could be a good diversion for him: Roadhog figures it’s worth his while to try and make this idea stick.

“It’s… How about you dictate it?” It’d be a lot faster, Roadhog thinks, and a lot less of a headache for him.

“What, really? Right now? Alright, mate, sure.” The kid immediately flops over onto his side, fumbling to try and get his trousers off under the bulk of his own stomach. It’s… not hard to guess what he thinks the word means.

“The hell’re you…” Roadhog sighs heavily. “No, Rat, I mean I’ll write it down. You tell me what to write, they call that dictating.”

Making a face, Junkrat reluctantly lets go of his waistband, clearly disappointed. For such a sickly bastard, he has a ridiculous libido-- if it were up to him, they’d be doing something pretty much 24/7.

“I _guess_ I can do that. Makes it easier to put all me wits into rememberin’ stuff.” He’s still sulking, resting his head on Roadhog’s knee and fidgeting impatiently. Roadhog humors him a little, running a hand through his wild, tangled hair. Since he’s been… like this, his condition’s actually improved in a few ways. His hair’s started growing in right for the first time since Roadhog’s known him, he’s put on weight, and his skin’s lost just a tiny bit of that yellowish quality.

“Yeah. So just start where you were gonna start before.” Flipping to a new page, Roadhog awkwardly adjusts his hold on the undersized notepad.

“Alright. Uh, to start off with… Right. I was born somewhere around Ayers Rock, I think, few years 'fore the Oz collapse.” He screws his eyes shut for a second, visibly struggling to remember. Well, remember _clearly_. That’s something Roadhog’s noticed after working with the little creep for so long; he doesn’t seem to forget things so much as just lose access to them. “Dunno much about me mum. I can kinda picture her, yanno, but it’s all muggy.”

“Okay, hang on.” Roadhog scribbles it all down in shorthand-- he trusts his own memory a hell of a lot more than Junkrat’s.

“I was a kid when we left the house together, it wasn’t safe anymore. No food comin’ that way, she said, no choice but to move. We was out in the bush, stopped in some farmhouse for the night, an’ she made me climb in this little cupboard under the sink.”

This already sounds like a bad story, Roadhog thinks, but he doesn’t say anything. He just keeps writing, nodding every now and then to tell the little guy when to pause. It’s hard to ignore the way Junkrat constantly picks at the threads of the bedspread, his fingernails, the hair on his arm. Anything to busy his hands, keep from being too still.

“She said ‘wait here, I’ll be back soon, but don’t you ever come out until I come and get you’. So I waited. I was real quiet, Hog, I waited and waited, til I fell asleep an’ then longer than that. She never came an’ got me, though. Probably found somethin’ better to do than try and watch a kid in that hellhole.” The way he says that makes Roadhog stop writing and raise his eyebrows in disbelief: like that’s a completely normal way to think, like he assumes all parents just drop their kids when they’re tired of them.

“Wot? I was five, tops, mate. Barely remember that anymore.” Junkrat looks right back at him, just as lucid and calm as he ever gets. Sure, a few years in the wasteland had taught Roadhog how to be exactly that kind of ruthless bastard, but it always makes him double-take when he’s reminded that this is just the default way of being for someone like Junkrat.

Roadhog shakes his head, trying to put it out of his mind. If it doesn’t matter to Junkrat, he sees no point in asking any questions. “Keep going.”

“Right. So I ran with a buncha different crews, hung out Junkertown for a while-- oh, man, did I ever tell you about that pipe bomb I got from old man McNeil?” He has, several times.

“No.”

“Oh! Okay, so, I sold off all this shit I found in a cellar, spark plugs and lil’ motors and the like, and the junk man gave me this piece of shit bomb he’d taken from a raider as part of the deal. He kept sayin’, ‘don’t fuck with that thing, you’ll blow yer hand off’, but I was nine and didn’t give a shit.” His whole attitude changes in a flash-- he’s all but shaking with excitement as he speaks, pushing himself up on his good arm while he rambles. “I took it way out into the bush an’ found me an old shed, lit the fuse and chucked it in there. I ran like hell! Ducked under a rock, put me hands over me head, and then…”

“Nothing happened.” Roadhog’s heard this story at least a dozen times. For whatever reason, Junkrat’s memory always gets a lot more detailed when explosives are involved; he just doesn’t retain how many times he’s shared those details. Kind of an idiot savant thing he’s got going on.

“How’d you guess? So I stood up to look in the shed, right? See if it’s damp in there or the bomb’s a dud or what. And right then, the piece ‘a shit goes off. BAM! Wood and metal everywhere! Hardly any fireworks, but enough force to knock me right off me feet.” Still grinning broadly, Junkrat drums his fingers on Roadhog’s knee. “Big ol’ hunk a’ wood smashed me right in the face! I bled-- heh heh-- bled like a stuck pig, but nothin’ important came off, an’ my nose wasn’t really broken, just all swole up. That was the first time I ever blew anything up! Best day a’ me young life!”

Junkrat wags his stump in the air gleefully, rolling onto his back a bit and wheezing as he immediately regrets it. That stomach’s gotten too big and heavy for him to rest any way but on his side, and he stubbornly keeps trying to lie in positions he can’t physically handle.

“Thus began a long legacy of blowing shit up. It’s me callin’ card, Hoggy, me way of life.” He makes another thin, pissy sound when Roadhog props him up with a hand on his back. “An’ if I can’t do that, what’s the point in livin’? I always said, they won’t take me alive, they can--”

“C’mon, let’s keep going. You’re so close to having that…” Roadhog sighs, visibly struggling to contain his sarcasm without something to cover his face. “Memoir of yours planned out.”

“Right, right.” Nodding sagely, Junkrat shifts again, draping his whole upper half over Roadhog’s gut so he can see the paper as he writes. “Okay, so, how do you top explosions? Ya don’t, really. But I need somethin’ almost as interesting to keep the people hooked.”

“I’m… not sure you understand how a memoir works.” It’s supposed to be like a biography, right? Roadhog admits, he’s not the most well-read guy on the planet, but he’s pretty confident that whatever he’s picturing is a hell of a lot closer than Junkrat’s ideas.

“Sex! That’s it!” Junkrat beams, ignoring the obvious groan from Roadhog. “Sex and violence, it’s perfect! Why hasn’t somebody thought of this before?” He scrabbles around, trying to get Roadhog to lie back so he can use him like a mattress-- it’s not happening. “What was, er… Shit, what was the first time I did it?”

“Don’t ask me.”

“Shut up, I’m thinking.” Junkrat chews his lip, absentmindedly resting a hand on his stomach. Lately he’s been doing that more and more: Roadhog wonders if it helps with the aches and pains he’s always griping about. “The first time I did anything like that, I was thirteen. It hadn’t rained in months, I remember that, and there was big clouds comin’ up over the desert. But I was a stupid shit who’d gotten way out in the middle ‘a nowhere, no buildings, no rocks to hide under, nothin’. The acid rain was gonna eat me alive!”

Why are so many of the stories Junkrat tells awful? Roadhog hasn’t heard this particular one, but he’s heard ‘guess where I found my own hand bones’ and ‘beetles have tons of protein’ enough times to get a sense for where this is going.

“So I’m tryna dig me a hole for cover, right? And right then, this enormous fuckin’ rig rolls up on the highway! It’s some kinda butchered semi, all painted up and loaded with good shit. Rich folks gotta be drivin’ that, I thought, and then they stopped for me! Naturally, I got me gun ready; I was impressed, but I ain’t stupid. These two blokes got out and said to me, ‘hey, kid, you need a place to get outta the rain?’” Junkrat cuts himself off with a yawn, resting his head on Roadhog’s chest lazily.

“They told me I hadta earn my keep, and I was like yeah, I can work on yer truck, I can shoot, I can blow shit up for ya. But they didn’t want any ‘a that stuff. Big guy was first, he just straight up pulled his trousers down, and told me to--”

“I think I get it.” Roadhog winces, setting the notepad aside to rest a hand on the scrawny punk’s back. Thirteen. He’s done more than his share of bad shit, he knows. Killed people just to get them out of the way: but even he has standards!

“What? Quit lookin’ at me like that. You never had to give head for favors, did you? Too big an’ tough for that.” Junkrat shoves his hand away, sniffing dismissively. “But it don’t work that way for a bloke like me. It sucked, yeah, but I wasn’t above it. Nobody’s above nothin’ in the outback.”

There’s nothing for Roadhog to say here. He just glances away, letting Junkrat wrap a bony arm around his neck and cling. Sometimes, all he can do is act as a solid surface for the poor idiot to hang onto.

“You don’t get to be all high-n-mighty, Pig.” Glowering up at Roadhog, Junkrat rests his chin on the back of his hand and shifts his hips impatiently. “You ain’t big enough to talk down to me.”

“I know,” Roadhog mumbles. “Nobody’s above anything.” There’s a long, heavy silence between the two of them, and for the first time he can remember, Roadhog is the one to disrupt it. “...Why don’t you add that story about the time you torched the lightbulb place?” He knows how much Junkrat loves that story.

“G-Good idea, mate! We was in England, right?”

“Boston.”

“Yeah, I-I know. An’ I was tapped out on just about everything, but they had me covered, dinnit they? Big ol’ tank of kerosene in the back.” Roadhog lies back against the headboard, giving up on writing and just listening to Junkrat prattle on. So much for that memoir idea. He smiles, just the slightest bit, when he sees some of that manic glee come back into Junkrat’s face as he describes the fireball in loving detail-- _this_ sounds more like the guy he knows. The one he dragged kicking and screaming across the outback and back to civilization.

God help him, he missed the asshole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to my awesome beta-- she doesn't even like Overwatch and she still proofreads for me. What a trooper! 
> 
> Any comments or input are always appreciated. Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

Junkrat’s sleeping soundly, the familiar rhythm of a soft, slow heartbeat by his ear, when he’s rudely jerked awake. The big guy rolls out from under him, shifting his weight fast enough to nearly knock Junkrat off the edge of the bed. He yelps, clawing dumbly at the crumpled sheets to keep from falling.

“What the hell?!” Junkrat squawks, glancing around wildly as his eyes adjust to the light.

For a moment, Roadhog doesn’t answer. He stands silently with his back to the bed, clearly watching or listening for something. Then Junkrat spots them-- the shadows of feet moving past the crack under the door. He can just barely pick out the muffled voices and the click of a rifle magazine.

“We’ve gotta go.” Roadhog grunts, cramming everything from the tables into a duffel bag and fumbling for his gun. Even with his gas tanks, walking straight into heavy fire is more than the old guy can take; and far as Junkrat remembers, he’s only got a couple of those canisters left.

“I got it.” Clambering down on the floor stiffly, Junkrat kneels (or does the closest thing he can manage,) and pulls his own tattered knapsack out from under the bed. Bingo. He can scrounge six fairly fresh munitions and a remote detonator; they’d barely make a dent in the gathering crowd outside, but they’re better suited to demolition anyway. Finding that weird steadiness he doesn’t get anywhere else, Junkrat starts to duct tape the explosives to the wall by the window.

Hearing the tape rip, Roadhog turns back to him. “You’re not supposed to fuck with that stuff, your lungs--”

“The hell you wanna do then, huh?” Junkrat spits. “Sit around and let ‘em break the door down?” The lock gives a warning rattle and Roadhog acts fast, rushing across the room to pin the door shut with his weight. Bastards just wanted to make sure they’re here, then rush them; they probably set up this ambush at the last minute. Ought to know better by now than to think they’d go down so easy. More than anything, Junkrat’s kind of insulted!

“Jus’ buy me two minutes.” Hissing obscenities under his breath, Junkrat arranges his mines in a messy circle. Every few seconds the pounding on the door and the creaking wood reminds him how much time he’s got. (It’s just dumb luck they got caught in a country that doesn’t let the police use gas.) Finally he’s satisfied with his sloppy rig and scrambles into bathroom, dragging his ruined leg as he goes. Roadhog follows him, ripping the plastic wardrobe out of the wall to act as a barricade and climbing into the dirty tub with Junkrat. The big guy crouches over him, bent down and shielding him with both arms, and Junkrat hits the switch.

There’s a deafening bang when the wall comes down-- it makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, the shock of the blast washing over him like a massive wave when it hits a split second later. He can’t help grinning, even when Roadhog picks him up like a tire under his arm and grabs the duffel in the other. Clutching both tight, he charges through the cloud of dust and debris into the grassy lot behind the motel. Junkrat doesn’t bother trying to get down: his pride isn’t worth going to jail for, and he knows good and well that he couldn’t keep up with Hog when his leg’s basically dead weight. Instead, he clings to try and keep from slipping, raises a middle finger to the cops as he’s dropped clumsily in his sidecar, and cackles gleefully when the engine kicks on and he hears the shrill of bullets whizzing by his head.

“Woo! Let’s go! Pedal to the metal, Hoggy!” By the time he finishes that thought, they’re already moving too fast for him to sit upright; his knees dig into his gut as the bike rockets over brush and gravel. Sure, he’s tired and aching and may well throw up, but he’ll be damned if he’s gonna stop laughing.

“Shut up!” Pig’s not taking this as well as he used to; he’s been a real drag lately. It’s like they hit one little bump in the road and, all of the sudden, he’s lost his taste for mayhem!

“Whew! That was close, eh, ya ol’ sow? I bet-- _hkkk--_ ” There it is. Junkrat has to cut himself off, doubling over and coughing raggedly into his hands. It goes from painful hacking to dry heaving fast, and he ends up leaning over the edge of the sidecar, miserably waiting to puke but never getting the relief.

“Yeah, it was fucking close. Too close, Rat. We can’t keep this up.” Roadhog’s using that hard, low tone he does when he thinks he’s intimidating, but Junkrat’s too busy wheezing and swallowing back bile to really appreciate it. “You’re too sick.”

“Think I hadn’t-- _ghhk--_ h-hadn’t noticed that, asshole?” Resting his cheek on the sidecar’s cool metal rim, Junkrat glances up at him blearily. For a moment, Roadhog refuses to answer, pretending to focus on driving even though they both know he could lose these wankers in fifteen minutes.

Finally, Junkrat presses him. He needs something to distract from the crackling in his chest and the churning in his stomach. “Half the world’s lookin’ for us. We don’t have a choice but to keep movin’.”

Roadhog makes a noncommittal noise, barely audible over the roar of the motor. “I don’t know. If we could hide out somewhere…” The second Junkrat opens his mouth to argue, he continues. “Just til’ you get better. Don’t want ‘em poking and prodding you in the prison medbay, do you?”

Ugh, he had to bring out that old hatchet of his. Junkrat shivers a little just thinking about it, getting stripped and hosed down and inspected like a piece of meat. He’d rather die in a ditch than let that happen again!

“...Fucker. So what’s your big plan, then?” He puts on a high-pitched, mocking voice. “We headed to a lil’ villa in France?” At no point does Junkrat claim to know what the hell a villa is, only that it sounds fancy.

“Canada.”

“You fuckin’ kidding me?!” Finally getting used to the oppressive force of the wind, Junkrat sits up and snarls. “We never set foot in that frozen hellhole!”

“Exactly. The northern interior’s still mostly uninhabited, they’d never look for us up there.” Roadhog takes a bandana from the saddlebag with one hand and lets go of the handles to tie it groggily around his face. “We never had the sense to hide out like proper criminals.”

Junkrat snorts irritably, drumming on the chassis with his metal hand to produce a quick, rattling beat. “Sounds like a real pain if you ask me. Thought we was rotting away in that motel...” He’ll go batshit before the bloody parasite kills him!

“What’re our other options?” Roadhog booms, loud enough to make Junkrat flinch just the slightest bit. “The clean air’ll help your breathing, we can lay low a few months, and then we’ll be back on the road. We can be bored to death out there or entertained in prison, your damn call.”

“...Few months, huh?” Watching the bare trees and crooked fences race by, Junkrat mumbles. “You know I hate it. I hate it so goddamn much when you’re right.”  
  
Roadhog snorts bitterly. “Happens more than you think.”


	4. Chapter 4

The first motel they crash at has antique fluorescent lights. Roadhog remembers these things from when he was a kid, the sickly buzz and piss-yellow color that most civilized places did away with decades ago.

He’s on edge, knowing the cops have a lead on them now, but this is as far as they could get in one night without putting more strain on Junkrat’s health. Sure, he’s improved in a few ways, but improved from rock bottom is still pretty lousy. The kid’s jittery as he slumps down onto the bed, muttering and cursing incoherently as he struggles to bend forward enough to detach his useless leg.

“Fuckin’... C’mon! What the hell?!” Junkrat snarls and stomps his heel on the ground furiously. Great, he’s starting a tantrum-- Roadhog’s too tired for this. “It’s jammed! I can’ get it off!”

“Wouldn’t be jammed if you’d stop banging it.” Dropping the duffel bag on a less suspicious swath of carpet, Roadhog grunts dismissively.

“‘Wouldn’t be jammed’-- me old leg never jammed! It’s this piece of shit you talked me into, that’s what it is!” Seething, the little guy grabs the nearest weapon he can find, a chintzy TV remote. He winds back with his metal hand and lobs it as hard as he can at Roadhog. “It’s yer fault I’m hobbled!”

“Quit it.” His tone suggests it’s a warning, but they both know there’s no meat to it. It’s not like he can just grab the bastard and scare him straight like he used to.

“That’s another thing! You’re forgettin’ who’s in charge here, fatty! I’m the boss, I come up with the plans, I got everythin’ that pays for yer food an’ board!” Hands shaking, Junkrat starts trying to claw his way under the outer panels of his prosthetic, prying at it even while it makes this horrible squealing sound. The screech of bending metal and plastic cuts right into Roadhog’s throbbing head. “You don’ tell me what to do, nobody payin’ you for yer soggy meatball brains…”

“If you don’t… stop that noise…” Roadhog grumbles, pulling his bandana off and rubbing at his eyes wearily.

“Then what? You gonna hit me?” The way he says that is particularly vile: he makes it sound shameful _not_ to beat a pregnant person. “Nah, you’re too old and flaccid fer that. Got all the fight outta yer system. Not like the good ol’ ALF days, oh no, you weren’t no pussy then.” That’s it, that’s what tears it. Junkrat has gone out of his way to make the shittiest, cheapest shot he knows, and Roadhog isn’t gonna stand back and listen to it.

“No, you know what? I won’t.” He turns sharply, looming over the bed. “I won’t waste my energy. It’s not my style to fuck with some skinny, loudmouth little shit who can’t even get out of the bath without my help.”

One sucker punch for another. Roadhog huffs bitterly, watching the anger drain right out of Rat’s face. He shrinks into himself, everything but his gimpy leg, and stares down at the sheets without a word.

“Yeah, gets _real_ quiet when I point that out...” Roadhog sloppily unpacks his bag, still tense and deliberate in his movements. Taking a wide path to the bathroom, he stops to duck his head under the showerhead, gets the dust out his hair, puts on some (comparatively) clean clothes. Goes out of his way to ignore Junkrat, even though he hasn’t heard the little freak move a muscle in several minutes.

When he does lumber back to the bedroom-- uninterrupted, un-harrassed, into an almost eerie quiet-- he’s cooled off a bit. Not enough to take back what he said, no, he stands by that, but enough to peer down at the bed and second-guess himself just slightly when he sees the shape Rat’s in.

The punk’s not crying, thank God, but he’s damn close to it. Junkrat’s completely shut down, sitting perfectly still with that thousand-yard stare he gets when he stops talking and lets himself think for more than a second at a time. It’s eerie: when he stops making ugly faces and that shit-eating grin that shows all his teeth, he looks so much younger. More of a gaunt, bug-eyed kid than a hardened criminal. He doesn’t even glance upward when Roadhog faces him, and it’s only after another few minutes of silence that he goes back to (gingerly, halfheartedly,) trying to disconnect his broken leg.

“Here.” He’s too pathetic to watch for long. Roadhog kneels by the bed, gently taking a hold of Junkrat’s wiry thigh and helping him get out of his prosthetic. He was right, it did jam-- it takes a steady hand and a good bit of force to get the nerve hookup to come loose. As soon as he’s free, Rat rolls over onto his back with a thin groan and closes his eyes miserably.

“I-It’s doin’ that thing again, Hoggy.” Junkrat’s voice is still hoarse and weak from shouting.

“Moving?” Roadhog sits by the bed for a moment, watching Junkrat’s little pigeon chest rise and fall shakily. He was always lean, just a missed meal or two away from being underweight, but that round, heavy stomach makes him seem scrawnier than ever before.

“Yeah. Fuckin’ hurts.” Turning onto his side, Junkrat wheezes. “Can’t make it stop…”

With a soft, almost sympathetic sound, Roadhog picks himself up and sits on the edge of the bed. His weight makes the whole frame bend toward him, but Junkrat just reaches out and curls an arm feebly around as much of Roadhog as he can. It’s disturbing to see him like this, quiet and frail, his wild impulses reigned in by the bulk of his own body. Roadhog lies down next to him, flattening a hand on the side of his abdomen; it’s firm like rubber and feverishly warm, the skin stretched tight as a drum over the shifting, squirming mass underneath. Junkrat whines but doesn’t move away, grabbing a fistful of Roadhog’s shirt and eagerly burying his face in his chest.

Rat shivers in dread when the movement starts again, his good hand clinging tighter to Roadhog’s frame. He just nods, starting to stroke his stomach in slow, reassuring movements.

“...Mako?”

Ugh. That name hits him like a knife in the gut. The only time Junkrat bothers with real names is when he can use them.

“Yeah?”

“It’s gonna… yanno…” The little guy takes a shaky breath, keeping his eyes screwed shut. “ _Come out_ soon, innit?”

“Guess so. Supposed to be in a couple months.” Even the most legitimate doctors they could find were only estimating the due date: by Mako’s count, it could be anywhere from eight weeks to twelve from now, and that’s only if it stays put as long as most babies do. As long as healthy babies, with healthy mothers, do.

“Shit.” Junkrat looks up at him, but doesn’t say anything else for a while. The wide-eyed, dim expression on his face reminds Roadhog of the day he lost his leg in the first place. He was on the concrete floor of the warehouse, lying in a pool of blood an inch deep, clutching his leg in both hands and he just… looked up at Roadhog, in complete silence for a moment. There wasn’t any fear, any pain, any real grasp on what happened; he just stared at Mako like he was absolutely lost, waiting for some hint what to do. This is that same kind of shellshocked helplessness Roadhog saw that day.

“Yeah. But, uh…” Roadhog hesitates, curling his fingers in that tangled mess of hair. “The place we’re headed isn’t too far from here. I’d say a week of driving, tops.” That’s a little optimistic, but he’s got a talent for not saying too much.

“Good.” Junkrat mumbles, so faint that Roadhog wonders if he can even hear himself. “‘M gonna barf me guts out if I havta sit in that sidecar much longer.”  

“We’ll set up there, lay low, work on plans, and then when you… when it’s over, we can drop the kid at the nearest hospital and get moving again.” They’d both been avoiding any discussion of the big event, but it’d been decided ages ago that they’d find somewhere to leave the baby as soon as it’s out.

“I know, I got it.” Huddling up to Roadhog sheepishly, the little guy chews his lip. It’s not like him to think ahead-- hell, on a good day, he can usually think about thirty minutes into the future and that’s it. But this is clearly eating at him, and there’s nothing Roadhog can come up with that’ll really stop that. It won’t hurt? Bullshit. It’ll turn out fine? Seems like setting him for disappointment. The more he thinks about it, the more Roadhog realizes he can’t even promise the poor kid he’ll survive this, especially not without a real doctor to look after him.

Even though he planned on stumbling in and going straight to bed, Roadhog’s wide awake now. Junkrat keeps fiddling with his t-shirt absently, staring off into space again, and Roadhog has to gently cup the side of his face to bring him back.

“‘M not going anywhere, you know. Can’t leave your stupid ass alone for a minute.” He flashes a weak, sad smile, and Junkrat laughs at him faintly. “Now I have to cart you all the way across the fucking tundra.”

“That’s what I pay you for, fatass.” It’s been at least a year since Junkrat formally paid him anything. They both just take what they want, do what they want, and are satisfied with that arrangement. At this point, they both have more money than they’ll ever know what to do with: Roadhog gets paid in live-fast, die-young mayhem.

With a conflicted sigh, Roadhog holds the little freak to his chest, listening to his rattly breathing as it slows into a snore. Rat feels fragile in his hands, and he stares emptily at the water damage on the wall, his head humming with the kind of forwards and backwards thinking that the kid usually keeps him away from.


	5. Chapter 5

“Hog! Hoggy, lookit this!” Junkrat beams, pulling on the big guy’s arm until he can’t ignore him any longer. Even in his sorry state, he’s a junker, after all! He’s been tinkering with his bum leg for a couple days; it’s still a piece of shit, but at the very least, the knee sort of bends when it needs to, and he can get around with only a slight limp.

Roadhog doesn’t say anything at first-- no appreciation for nothing. Junkrat’s seen his own reflection, and he knows for a fact that he looks fantastic in pigtails, scratched-up flamingo sunglasses, and something the bird behind the counter called a ‘neg-lee-jay’.

“You look ridiculous.” Roadhog mumbles, clearly jealous.

Dragging his leg and leaning against Roadhog, Junkrat gasps. “You don’t think I’m pretty no more!”

The big guy doesn’t even bother with an answer. He’s just pissy because he can’t fit into a negleejay of his own-- he can just barely squeeze between the racks in this store!

“What crawled up your ass and died?” Huffing childishly, Junkrat takes off the shades so he can see better. Hog looks like death warmed over, blundering around in tattered jeans and his dusty leather coat like a dog that’s been crammed into clothes.

“Just wanna get moving again.” Flat and dull, Roadhog has the voice of a man running on three days with no sleep. Pathetic! He doesn’t know exhaustion _is_ compared to Junkrat. (The inside of his chest itches, how the hell’s he supposed to sleep through that?)

“Fine. Killjoy.” Junkrat caves in and picks out an enormous fur coat; Roadhog says it looks like a hooker coat made of dead cats, and that’s exactly why Junkrat likes it. He gets his hands on a few more choice numbers, lets the old man pay their bill, and waits until they’re safely in the parking lot to show off his haul.

“Ta-dah! I pulled through for ya, Hoggy!” He opens up his coat like a flasher, grinning proudly as huge wads of fabric tumble loose.

“What the hell--”

“I took everythin’ in the store that had a pig on it! ...Plus some other shit. Look, I got hats, t-shirts, some ‘a them fuzzy socks…” He helps Roadhog stuff everything haphazardly in a saddlebag, but he’s still waiting for his accolades.

“We could’ve been arrested.” The big guy looks at him wearily: not mad, just tired and disappointed.

“Bullshit! You’re lookin’ at an invincible force here, got me?” Junkrat hitches his pants up clumsily, then holds his arms out in a grand gesture. “Ain’ nobody gonna accuse a sick, knocked-up cripple of anything! I could limp me merry way right up to the cop shop, press me ass against the windows if I pleased. I’ll do whatever I want! Who’s gonna stop me?”

It’s quick, but Junkrat’s dead sure he hears a soft chuckle under that ugly bandana. Hoggy’s smiling with his eyes, he can see it!

“C’mon, none of this stuff’s doin’ it for ya?” He holds up an enormous pair of boxers-- may or may not be the right size, now that he thinks about it-- decorated with a pattern of hot pink cartoon characters. At least a few of them are pigs. “I thought you’d at least get a kick out of this!”

“Rat…” Roadhog helps him up into the sidecar, snorting when Junkrat stuffs the boxers into his back pocket. He loves them, he’s just too proud to admit it. “I can’t believe the place is still standing.”

“What kinda dipshit you take me for?” Junkrat wriggles awkwardly, trying to get comfortable in the cramped sidecar. He folds his arms over his aching chest, closing his eyes thoughtfully. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.

BAM! The entire side of the worn-down building crashes down on itself, a thick plume of fire bursting up through the hole it left behind. He grins like a maniac as Roadhog revs the engine, cackling when he’s thrown back against the ratty upholstery.

“When the fuck did you even have time to do that?!” The big guy pays attention to the road for once, but Junkrat knows that glint of joy in his eye when he sees it.

“You’re askin’ a wizard to reveal his tricks, mate! Just enjoy them fireworks.” He leans over the side to watch the blaze, frowning in disappointment when it disappears around a corner.

“You fucking lunatic.” His voice wavers just a tiny bit in the middle there, like he’s struggling not to laugh. Most blokes wouldn’t notice it over the sound of the engine, and Junkrat’s hearing is pretty much shit to start out with, but he knows what he heard.

Like he said, Roadhog loves this. He’s just too proud to admit it.

 

* * *

 

The new hotel is a damn fancy one, so far as Junkrat can tell. They’ve been kicked out of fancier, but not many! It’s even got this little fridge, full of candy and drinks and snacks that are just… free to take? He guesses? So, naturally, he crams most of it in his bag and the rest into his mouth. Never know when he’ll get an opportunity like this again!

“Don’t barf again.” Roadhog’s sprawled out on the bed, and he’s got that stupid book out again. The green one he keeps in his jacket. He’s been reading the crumpled old thing since they got to the states! Why would anyone willingly put their time into something that takes so damn long? Junkrat watches him for a moment, ferociously jiggling his real foot and studying that stern, focused expression. He’ll never completely understand this shady fuck.

Slowly, as subtly as he knows how, he ditches his food and clambers up on the sliver of space at foot of the bed. It seems like Roadhog’s ignoring him, and Junkrat takes that as a sign to continue, fumbling along on all fours until he’s resting his chin on the big guy’s knee.

Roadhog interrupts his train of thought, mumbling. “I dunno.” He acts like he knows exactly what Junkrat’s gonna do, even though he’s just _barely_ started messing with his belt. Thinks he’s a wily old bastard, doesn’t he? Then again, Junkrat’s always been good at making it clear what he wants-- and lying halfway in Roadhog’s lap, pawing at his groin shamelessly, it’s pretty damn clear what he’s thinking.

“What happened to taking it easy?” There’s still humor in his voice, though it’s low and restrained, as he sits up lazily and runs his fingers through Junkrat’s hair. Junkrat grins and nuzzles into Roadhog’s massive palm, his heart stammering excitably from just the slight acknowledgement of a chuckle it earns him.

“Hoggy, pal, me best mate…” He takes the time to run his hand lazily over the big guy’s stomach, even though his other arm’s trembling a bit from the strain of holding himself up. “If I ever get so fucked up that I can’t shag or blow shit up anymore, I want you to personally put a bullet through me head. That ain’t a life worth livin’!”

Snickering to himself, Junkrat adds. “I’ll wear the negleejay if ya want.” There’s that soft, encouraging laugh again, and damn if Junkrat wouldn’t do anything to hear more of it. He leans on Roadhog, shoulder to belly, wriggling impatiently as he worries his lip in anticipation. Quick and clumsy, he yanks Hog’s zipper down and pulls him free of his boxers, kneeling down between his legs. Anything he can get, he’ll gladly take; the old man knows that, uses it as an excuse to manhandle Junkrat within an inch of his life. He’s got this mean streak in him that drives Rat wild.

With the steady hand of an engineer, he curls his fingers around the base of Roadhog’s dick and squeezes carefully. Flashing a nasty grin, Junkrat starts to pump expertly, resting his head on the curve of Roadhog’s stomach and listening to his breathing pick up with the steady rhythm of his touch. There’s a _few_ skills he picked up in the outback that’re still good here in the civilized world.

He bends as best he can, squirming down onto his elbows and knees heedless of his heavy gut pressing against the sheets below him. Taking a deep breath, he finds just the right angle to drag his tongue over the shaft luxuriously. A low groan spurs him on and Junkrat starts lapping crudely at the head, dragging it out as long as he can stand before taking Hog in his mouth. The hand on his head doesn’t force him down, just strokes at his hair idly as he works. Roadie’s being a damn gent by their standards. Junkrat swallows, starting to bob his head at a practiced tempo. He knows the drill: breathes through his nose, grips the base with his thumb, takes as much as he can without choking.

Without warning, Roadhog grabs his bony shoulder and pushes him back, urging him to sit up. Junkrat obeys immediately, bracing himself-- where’s the iron grip around his neck? Where’s the blunt nails digging into his hip? The big guy can lift him up and break him like a ragdoll, but doesn’t. Instead, he patiently helps him out of his baggy trousers, tugging them down until they’re off his good leg and caught around his prosthetic. He’ll let Roadhog move him however he wants. The big guy quickly settles on pinning Junkrat’s back against his middle, one hand supporting him under his thigh and the other flat against his narrow chest. His first instinct is to rock back against Roadhog, bring himself down on his length, quick and rough, but he knows there’s no chance of him muscling through that hold. A familiar anxious kick runs through him when he realizes he’s trapped, totally at the mercy of this psychopath. It turns him on a lot more than he thinks it ought to.

“C-C’mon! Hurry up!” There’s nothing he hates quite like waiting, especially for this! Gritting his teeth angrily, Junkrat squirms and whines, arching his back until it fits right up against the pig’s stomach. He tries to spread his legs, making a feeble noise of frustration when he feels the tip press against his entrance.

“Easy.” Roadhog swipes the pad of his thumb over Rat’s nipple, just to torture him. Finally, agonizingly slow, he eases Junkrat down onto him, pausing when he slips inside and Junkrat shudders. It’s _overwhelming_. He tenses up, struggling to adjust-- it hurts, sure, it always does, but the pleasure blooming through his abdomen makes it more than worthwhile.

The hand holding him by the ribs shifts, Roadhog’s thick, calloused fingers kneading at his swollen chest gently. It’s not just tender, it _stings_ , sending a sharp, electric feeling running down his whole torso. Breathing quick and shallow, he squeezes his eyes shut and eases himself down little by little, trying to keep his eyes from watering. That weird gentleness crops up again; Junkrat’s just barely together enough to register it, but he can’t miss the old man nuzzling at the crook of his neck. His powerful hands still keep Junkrat pinned, but he can’t feel his bones creak or the bruises welling up under his skin. Roadhog hitches his hips sluggishly, kissing Junkrat’s throat when he gasps and shivers. Who the hell is this, and what’d he do with the selfish, brutal son of a bitch that Junkrat hired?

A leisurely pace builds up, just fast enough to keep him on edge, and Junkrat quickly decides he doesn’t care who this bastard is anymore. He pants raggedly, clawing at Roadhog’s arm and digging his heel into the sheets to try and ground himself, find some sense of stability. His head’s spinning, he can’t think straight, he knows he’s getting close when he lets his head loll back against Roadhog’s shoulder. All it takes is one more deep, drawn-out stroke to push him over the edge. This is his favorite part: that golden moment between the action and the time it takes to realize why it was probably a bad idea.

Junkrat paws uselessly at Hog’s forearm, his hand, his own stretched-thin belly, riding out the last waves of sensation as the big guy continues to roll his hips. Just when it starts being more sore and exhausting than pleasant, Roadhog finishes with a low moan, still holding Junkrat’s scrawny frame tight. He takes his damn time pulling out, stroking Rat’s stomach and pressing a clumsy kiss to his jaw.

Spent and hazy, Junkrat flops back against Roadhog and closes his eyes, ready to pass out and not care if he’s gonna slide off the bed any minute. The old bastard doesn’t drop him, though. Awkward, still winded, Roadhog gathers him up in his lap, letting him prop his head up against his collarbone. Hog rests a hand on the curve of Junkrat’s abdomen, and Junkrat takes that massive paw in both his own to study it sleepily.

Junkrat’s tired, and his whirlwind brain’s almost still, letting him chew on ideas longer than he normally does. It strikes him just how huge this guy is; not only his weight, or his muscle, just all of it. He’s huge, down to his bones. Junkrat pictures that enormous skull next to his own and sniggers-- they’d make a right good freakshow, wouldn’t they? A giant and a half-man with holes in his brain.

His stomach turns anxiously as he tucks his forehead under Roadhog’s chin. Something’s off. He doesn’t know what’s happening here, isn’t sure if he likes it or not, but it scares the hell out of him. He listens to Roadhog’s heart, pounding away right under his ear, and he closes his eyes wearily. It’s just too foreign, he thinks. The way Roadhog-- or Mako, or whatever he’s answering to these days-- holds him, like he’s frail and sick, powerless in his hands. Like he’s fragile, but also important. Junkrat’s a pretty damn important guy, but shit, he doesn’t know what to think of somebody else acting like that.

This isn’t how he’s used to fooling around. It’s happened a couple times now, since the whole parasite problem, but he’s still not used to it. It’s supposed to be quick and careless and… disposable, like he is. Like everybody is.  
  
It’s terrifying to think maybe, just maybe, the old man’s forgetting that.


	6. Chapter 6

“This place is a bloody shithole.” Standing on the edge of the ancient deck, Roadhog can’t really argue with the little guy. He’s wary of putting his weight entirely on any one section of the porch; even watching Junkrat scamper around makes him a bit uneasy. But the seller gave them the keys with no questions asked, said they could do whatever they wanted. ‘Burn the place to the ground, I don’t care’. Exactly the kind of deal they need, even if it took twice the asking price and a hefty bribe to sort out.

“Cold as tits, too!” Junkrat hops down from the deck and wobbles over to the side of the cabin. Wriggling his pants down takes some work, but he manages, arching his back to piss on one of the stilts like a stray cat. “Gonna freeze my knob off out here.”

“Then don’t stand there with it hanging out.” It’s been a long ride, and they’re both stiff and ornery. Roadhog pops his back, then grabs hold of the bike’s handlebars to roll it into the space under the house. The cramped storage space between the foundation and the packed earth is the best he can do to keep it out of the elements. Pushing the bike with both hands, Roadhog pauses at the rickety chain fence separating the underside of the cabin from the surrounding land.

“Hey, gimme a hand here.” Junkrat sighs, like it’s the biggest pain in the ass, but follows Roadhog down to the gate. The little weirdo doesn’t just open it, though, trying to sneak up behind Roadhog, who cuts him off with a grunt. “If you give me your prosthetic instead of actually helping, I’m gonna hurl it so far into the woods that you’ll never see it again.” He hears the familiar click of Junkrat reattaching his metal hand, along with some irritable muttering as he circles around and opens the gate.

They get the bike locked up, and Roadhog starts lugging their duffel bags inside, one under each arm. The key’s under the mat, like that clever trick will stop anyone or anything from breaking in. Why the hell would they bother, anyway? Roadhog seriously doubts there’s anything worth stealing in here. He steps inside to the overwhelming smell of dust. It’s not much decay, just neglect: a place that was probably passable the last time someone came out here a few years ago. The water and ice that rotted the deck hadn’t made it inside yet.

“What now, Porkchop?” Junkrat tries to squeeze past him, but Roadhog pretty effectively blocks the doorway.

“Gotta air the place out.”

“What? What for? C’mon, I’m gonna freeze ta death at this rate! You know how cold it is in that fuckin’ sidecar?” Looking like a possum stuck in a drainage pipe, Junkrat tries to writhe his way past Roadhog stubbornly. If it weren’t for his bowling ball gut, he might’ve had a chance. He makes it just far enough to get a good, deep breath of the stagnant air, breaking into a horrible, ragged cough.

“That’s what. Just stay there for now.” It feels weird cleaning anything bigger than his bike; Roadhog hasn’t had a place with any kind of permanence or need for upkeep in years. Hell, _decades_. But he didn’t keep Junkrat alive this long just to see his lungs give out on him now.

He shuts the door and gets to work, opening all the windows to let the freezing wind rush in. Junkrat’s furious pacing and muttering are obnoxiously loud on the other side of the door. Using an old plastic broom, Roadhog tries to clear the thick layer of dust that’s congealed on every flat surface in the cabin. It doesn’t need to look nice, it just has to be livable.

Only a couple windows in the bedroom have curtains-- thick, ugly paisley folds that reek of mold. The furniture’s sparse and rickety, the doorways are too low for Roadhog to fit through without ducking, and the scuffed, discolored wooden floors squeal and groan in protest with every step he takes. That’s gonna bug the hell out of him. He’s trudged into the kitchen, checking to make sure the taps (sort of) work, when he realizes the noise outside has suddenly stopped.

“Rat?” Roadhog pauses uneasily, sticking his head out the front door. He half-expects the freak to rush him and try to barrel past, just to be a little shit, but when he steps outside, there’s nothing. No muttering, no ambush, nothing.

It’s exactly like him to wander off. How far could he even make it? That bum leg’s been locking up ever since they got past the border, it’s not built for the cold. His lungs burn when he inhales too deep, the crackle of frost clinging to his skin and hair. Roadhog isn’t built for this weather, either, and he knows for damn sure Junkrat isn’t. Scrawny as he is, he’d probably freeze to death in ten, fifteen minutes. Stepping off the deck, Roadhog eyes the fresh snow warily; he calls again, and there’s no response.

Now he’s starting to get nervous. “Junkrat!” There’s not even a smartass remark to be heard over the constant whistle of the wind. Holding his coat shut with one hand, Roadhog stomps out into the slush, searching for tracks. He’s slow and stiff, his joints hurt from inaction, but he forces himself pick up the pace.

His heart squeezes anxiously when he finds the trail-- leading straight off into the woods. What the fuck was this idiot thinking!?

“Jamison!” He charges ahead, following the shallow footpath as it winds past the treeline and off into the wilderness. It meanders in weird ways, the footprints mismatched in size, downhill around the massive pines until it ends at a tiny, dilapidated shed. The moldy little building seems to barely be standing under the weight of the snow on the roof, and it’s so low to the ground that it can’t really be seen from the road. Great. He’s found his idiot.

The door hangs open, and he can hear Junkrat shuffling around, the distinctive noise of his leg locking up and dragging. “Jamie! The fuck are you doing?!” ‘Stay put’ used to be a life-or-death bit of advice. Roadhog doesn’t get why being… why getting sick has somehow wiped that idea from Junkrat’s memory.

“Got bored, mate. Lookit this!” Junkrat grins ear to ear, apparently clueless about how bad Roadhog wants to wring his neck right now. “Ain’t she a beaut?” He leans over, heaving up out of a crate on the floor what has to be the ugliest, baldest and foulest piece of taxidermy Roadhog’s ever seen in his life. It’s a moose head, but in name only, its hide and fur so mummified by the cold and desiccated by moisture that it’s barely recognizable.

“You’re not putting that dirty thing on my bike.” Looking into its beady glass eyes (and Junkrat’s brainless, toothy smirk) does somehow calm him down, even if it’s just because he’s stricken by how stupid this whole situation is. He’s still seething, though, biting it back only for the sake of not giving Rat the satisfaction of annoying him. He grabs Junkrat’s coat and yanks him outside, ready to drag him as dead weight if he has to. “Ought to leave your bony ass out here to freeze.”

“What makes ya think I can’t cut it meself anymore, huh?” Junkrat puts his hands on his hips in an exaggerated pose, holding the moose head under one arm. One of the antlers is on the brink of falling off. 

“Cause we’re downhill from the house.” Just to make his point, Roadhog lets go of Junkrat and starts back up the slope. This punk already goes out of his way to make Roadhog’s job hell, he’s not getting away with being a prick on top of that. About halfway up the hill, he stops to glance over his shoulder at Junkrat struggling along behind him. His prosthetic’s particularly worthless on the rough terrain, and the effort of hauling his own weight is enough to start him panting and wheezing after just a couple minutes.

“Fucker… I’ll make it back, I-I just wanna… take me time, is all.” Junkrat wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, abandoning the moose head in the snow. Marching ahead stubbornly, he keeps going until he’s visibly sagging from exhaustion.

“Let’s go.” The point’s made, Roadhog thinks. If the kid were going to learn a lesson, it would’ve gotten through to him by now. He doubles back to meet Junkrat, quietly putting a hand on his shoulder to support some of his weight. At first, Junkrat shoves him bitterly, but then his knee wobbles and he leans on Roadhog to stop from slumping down on all fours.

They walk together for a little bit, until Junkrat’s cough comes back, rough and deep-sounding-- they really can’t afford to let that get worse. Rat’s condition has been going downhill for the last few weeks. One hand flat on his back, Roadhog bends to lift him up, getting a thin groan in response.

“Oh, c’mon, mate. Lemme have me _pride_.” It says a lot that it’s coming from a guy who once ate ice cream off the ground in the middle of a busy crosswalk. Roadhog pauses for a minute, letting the little guy slump against him and catch his breath.

“It’s not for long.” That’s the mantra that’s kept them going so far, and Roadhog hangs on to it stubbornly. He lifts Junkrat up in his arms as gently as he can, and in turn, Rat quietly rests his head on Roadhog’s shoulder in defeat. Defeat’s kind of his whole attitude as Roadhog carries him back uphill, his eyes screwing shut as he holds his stomach in his good hand.

“Fuckin… At least do me a favor.” Junkrat’s voice is frail, his breathing still ragged and irregular.

“What’s that?”

“Can you… Just don’t forget about Jamison Jr., okay?” He doesn’t look up, his cheek pressed up against Roadhog’s neck.

“...You named the kid?” That… actually catches Roadhog off guard. Ever since they got into mess, Junkrat’s been pretty cut-and-dry about wanting to get rid of the bastard as soon as possible. It’s always been ‘cut this damn thing out’ and ‘how much longer til it’s over’.

“What? No! Fuck that!” Junkrat squirms a little, trying to sit upright so he can glare at Roadhog proper. “Jamison Jr. is the moose. Make sure you go get it before dark.”

“Fucking lunatic.” Odds are, one of them’s gonna burn that thing, either Junkrat for fun or Roadhog because it’s disgusting. But he doesn’t complain past that, adjusting his hold on the gangly frame in his arms and stepping gingerly onto the deck. Junkrat puts on a hell of a show, still blathering away, wriggling like he wants to get away from Roadhog even though he’s still weak as a kitten.

His hair’s grungy and clings to his face with cold sweat as Roadhog eases him down, his legs trembling before he drops onto a rickety armchair by the potbelly stove. He always makes the fires. That’s part of their travelling agreement, the stupid, weirdly specific pact that kept them from murdering each other in the outback. Without a word, Roadhog hands the little guy a few slivers of dusty firewood, knowing he’s already got the lighter fluid on him. Struggling to bend over his own gut, Junkrat douses the wood in butane with all the care and attention of an artist.

“Oi, old man.” Junkrat flashes a genuine smile as he tosses a match into the grimy stove, the dry wood starting to crackle and hiss slowly.

“What?” Roadhog tests the bigger chair by the window, trying to decide whether or not it’ll snap under his weight.  
  
His grin fades, a weird, distant look coming over his eyes. “Think it’s about time that memoir of mine got good, don’t you?”


	7. Chapter 7

With Junkrat’s care, the fire stays lit 24/7. He’s never lived in a place with a stove like this-- keeping the fire going seems to somehow heat the whole cabin, like a damn gasoline engine. Junkrat settles into his seat by the fire, stuffing a wad of crumpled paper into the embers and watching it blacken into nothing. Stepping up beside the chair, Roadhog hands him a cup of weak tea, and Junkrat reluctantly takes it without fuss. The big guy’s really been hounding him about eating lately, and he’s got enough sense to pick his battles. He shifts, pointlessly trying to get comfortable, resting a stolen motel notepad on top of his stomach.

“Alright, alright, so where was I?” Holding up the pad for Hog to take, Junkrat mutters. “Seriously, mate. I forgot.”

Roadhog grumbles irritably, taking the paper and easing down carefully into his own musty, boxy chair. The one without armrests is the only one that stands a chance at supporting him. “The last time you tried the memoir thing?”

“Yeah. It’s an epic, Hoggy, a real edge-of-yer-seat kinda deal. It needs to be told!” Two days in this hole and he’s already bored out of his mind-- he has to do something to occupy his time, even if it’s just giving himself a headache by trying to recollect his stupid life story. It’s not like he’s brain damaged or anything, he knows all the broad strokes and outcomes of things, it’s just a lot of work for him to get together all the details. All the good ones, anyway. He embellishes it just a smidge, of course, like a good storyteller ought to do.

“You were talking about the light bulb place, I think. Something you blew up.” With a heavy, lazy hand, Roadhog takes a pen from the rickety side table and turns to a new page.

“Huh. Sounds right.” Junkrat wriggles and drums his fingers on the side of the chair. “Still not comin’ to me, but I’ll take yer word for it.”

“Thanks.” Nothing irritates Junkrat quite the way that tone does: the tone that says ‘I’m humoring a maniac’.

Glowering at Hog darkly, Junkrat mutters. “This was yer idea, fatass. Don’ get all pissy now cause you havta dick-tate.” He sinks back as far as he can, sitting with his legs sprawled in front of him and his back almost flat on the seat of the chair. The weight of his gut makes it feel like his lungs are up in his throat. “How’bout the time we left Oz in the first place?”

Roadhog’s quiet for a second, taking a sip of tea. “...That’s a good story.”

“Right? So hurry up an’ write it down, ‘cause I only tell stories once.” Junkrat feels pretty confident he’s stuck to that rule, even though Roadhog always reacts like he’s heard everything before. “We was in… Melbourne, right?”

“Sydney.”

“Was it Sydney?” That doesn’t sound right to him. Melbourne’s the one with the big fancy seashell-looking building, right? “Anyway, we went to that godawful charity place, yeah? Where they had all the old farts in wheelchairs, getting their meds.”

“Yeah. You split your head open, didn’t have a choice.” Elephants never forget, apparently. It’s real sly of the old man, making it sound like Junkrat’s fault they wound up in that hellhole.

“And if it weren’t fer that, we would’ve never gone to the coast in the first place. Never woulda left Australia.” Sniffing at the tea moodily, he makes a queasy noise and sets it down on the table. “But when we was there, an’ me head was all stitched and stapled together, I said, ‘know what we’re gonna do, Porkloin?’”

“You didn’t pitch it to me, you just stole a boat and rammed it into the pier.” Roadhog grunts in annoyance just mentioning it, but Junkrat can’t help but to laugh. Good times.

“We got out, dinnit we? Took that mighty ship all the way to China, you drivin’, me navigatin’ and plotting our next move.”

“You spent most of the time in bed, recovering. Then we hit a reef and ended up getting picked up by a gas tanker heading to Jakarta.” That’s right. Junkrat remembers that. He nods rapidly, bending to prod at the fire with the end of a broken ski pole. All this is stuff he remembers, he knows it, but… it helps to be reminded every now and then.

“Maybe…” Roadhog sighs, his voice dim and restrained. “You should try something closer to now.” Scribbling away at his tiny notepad, he looks particularly ridiculous; Junkrat can’t put his finger on it, but Hog brings to mind another comical, white-haired fat guy that writes lists and wears goofy little reading glasses.

“Like what? Haven’t done shit in the last… how long’s it been? Couple months?” Junkrat jabs at the charred logs idly, mesmerized by sparks drifting around the sickly fire. “Ought to just start at the last time we did anythin’ worth writing down.”

“Sure.”

“It was, er…” Groaning softly, Junkrat leans back against his chair, his back aching too badly for him to keep hunching over like that. “Down in Mexico, yeah? We’d cleaned out Dorado, so this time, we went for the capital.”

“Yeah.” Holy hell, he got one right. Maybe Piggy was onto something with this working backwards idea.

“We were gonna hit the museum, figured we’d be _gentleman art thieves_.” For that last part, Junkrat puts on a posh, cartoony British accent. “But then… I-I couldn’t go. Got too sick.”

“...Yeah.” The flash of pity that he spots in Roadhog’s eye makes Junkrat nauseous.

“Went to a doctor, thinking, ‘oh, he’ll throw some pills at it, put me back in workin’ order.’ Dinnit need to be good, I told him, knew I’d never be good. Just had to be decent. Then he told me I had this fuckin’...” Junkrat gestures at his middle. _"Thing_ growin’ in there. ‘It’s too late, we can’t just cut it out’. Bullshit! I still think he was keeping something from us, mate.”

Wincing bitterly, Junkrat stops to fuss with the waist of his baggy pants before continuing. “I mean, people like me? We don’t ever have kids. Our guts ain’t right fer it. Besides, damn near everybody in Oz got neutered by the radiation. Good thing, too-- can you imagine a bunch of brats runnin’ around in that mess?” Kids are scarce in the outback, few are born and even fewer last long against the radiation and the elements.

“One in a million chance.” The big guy’s tone is grim, and Junkrat doesn’t blame him. A bloody disaster, that’s what this is.  
  
“Oh no, we can’t get rid of it.” This time, Junkrat does a shitty impression of the Mexican doc’s voice, nasal and thickly accented. “It’d be too risky, it’s against the law. No ‘ethical’ doctor will do it. So yer just up shit creek until the little monster falls outta ya.”

For a minute, they both say nothing, a tense silence punctuated by the hiss and crackle of the fire. Junkrat shifts again, making a weak, pained noise as a familiar stirring starts in his gut. This is the part he hates most, even more than the sluggishness or pain-- the sickening feeling of something moving and struggling inside him.

“Gonna be over soon…” If Junkrat says it enough times, it’ll start to feel true, right? “Then we’ll hit the road, remind everybody we’re still on top. I say we go to Toronto, they’ve gotta have something good fer us, right?”

“Big museums there.” People always have the poor sense to put all their valuables in one place. Junkrat still doesn’t understand it! They take the most priceless things they own and put them on display, so other people can look and see how rich they are. Hoggy says it’s for ‘education’, but Junkrat never got what anybody could learn from looking at old shiny things on pedestals.

“Yeah, we’ll take what we want and burn the joint to the ground.” Junkrat smiles wistfully just picturing it: the great black towers of smoke, the roar of the walls coming down. “Bam, boom! The entire thing, flattened! I can see it, mate, can ya see it?”

All he gets is a halfhearted mumble in response. The pause that follows is just the _worst_ ; tense and empty, dark with the realization that they both have their doubts about this idea. They both have their doubts about Junkrat making it to Toronto. He fidgets angrily, jiggling his foot, picking and drumming at the threadbare upholstery, raking his hand through his bristly, uneven hair. His brain’s humming with energy, even as his body starts to stoop into a familiar slowness and his movements grind to a halt.

Finally, Roadhog breaks the silence, standing up and plodding along behind Rat’s chair. Placing his hand on the headrest, he asks. “You sleeping here again?” If Junkrat has to pass out again-- and he sure as hell doesn’t seem to have a choice in the matter-- he’ll do it here. The bedroom’s got this high humming noise in the ceiling, and no matter how many times Rat points it out, Hog never hears it. Bastard says it’s all in his head.

“Yeah.” Seems like all Junkrat does lately is sleep. But every time he wakes up, he’s still tired, and he never gets to sleep more than a couple hours at a time. It’s making him crazy. ...Not even the fun kind of crazy, just slow and mouthy and sore. Today, though, he’s too foul to care about anything but making himself feel a tiny bit less shitty. He sluggishly detaches his metal hand so he can rest without the heavy thing pulling on his bones.

Roadhog gives a grunt of acknowledgement, lumbering out of the room. Just when Junkrat’s about to make some solid jokes about how Piggy’s too old and decrepit to stay up past sundown, he comes back with a moth-eaten quilt, wordlessly draping it over Rat’s lap and chest.

“Ooh, me desert flower, _light of me life..._ Ya really do care.” His eyes are already drooping shut as he sniggers at his own comment.

“Odds are, that blanket’s really flammable. Sleep tight.” Roadie always knows just what to say, the charmer.


	8. Chapter 8

A hideout in the wilderness has its downsides-- shitty plumbing, animals poking around at night, the need to clear snow off the roof every other day so the whole thing doesn’t cave in. The biggest pain in the ass is the distance from civilization. It’s nearly an hour’s trip to the nearest town, which is barely more than a menagerie of trailers clustered around a lonely petrol station. He has to drop his speed on the sparse gravel road, if only to keep the sidecar from jostling and dumping out everything he bought. Food, medicine, toiletries, buckshot. All the essentials.

At Junkrat’s loud, _repeated_ request, he’s also picked up, “somma that ice cream stuff. You know the kind.” He’s somehow gotten even more scatterbrained lately; it’s not like him to forget the names of food. “The one with the picture of a cow on it! The cow’s holdin’ its tit things, so it looks like it’s havin’ a wank?” The worst part of that sentence is how, from that, Roadhog knew exactly what he’s talking about. He’s really started to speak Junkrat’s language, whether he wants to or not. It’s gotten to the point where even when he’s alone, he can almost hear that shrill, rambling cadence in his head.

This is likely gonna be his last supply run for a while. It’s not so much that he doesn’t trust Junkrat with the house, it’s more like he doesn’t trust him alone with his own ideas. The freak’s made it pretty clear that he’s bored, and when he’s bored, he inevitably does stupid things like ‘tweaking’ the timers on all his shrapnel mines. Besides, the radio said a cold snap’s coming, and Roadhog isn’t crazy about the thought of driving around in single-digit weather.

An ominous feeling looms over his head as he rolls up to the shadow of the cabin and kills the motor. Not fear, not yet, just this sense of wrongness in the air, like he’s walking into a trap. That feeling used to save his ass every day in the outback, and he’s inclined to trust it now. He glances around and grips the plastic shopping bags uneasily as he climbs up the steps.

Roadhog opens the door, holding it back so the cold wind doesn’t blow in. Quiet. It’s way too quiet for a house with Junkrat in it. Even when he’s asleep, he makes more noise than this with his mumbling and twitching. Hell, Roadhog’s seen him _actively_ try to hide only to blow their cover the second his mind wanders.

“Rat?” The thinnest shiver of worry creeps into his voice. Sometimes he forgets that he doesn’t have his mask to muffle everything for him, but he catches himself this time, swallowing and taking a mental step back to keep his face from betraying him.

“Don’t mind me, mate. I’m just here on the floor. No rush.” He’s in the bedroom. Roadhog drops the bags and hurries to get Junkrat, finding him in a tangled pile of blankets and discarded pillows. He’s equal parts ridiculous and pathetic, lying on his back with his ass above his head and held there by the sheets tangled around his leg.

Clearly he’s been trying to pull himself up for a while, but his prosthetics are on the other side of the bed, and he’s too heavy to lift himself without them. All the blood’s flowed out of his limbs, his toes white and his breathing quick and labored from trying to bear the weight of his abdomen on his ribs. Roadhog kneels and frowns when he gets a closer look at the pitiful scene. He might be trapped like this, but it looks like he’s been grabbing everything within arm’s reach to try and pull himself up. At least Rat had the courtesy to puke in the trash can this time.

“Wipe that look off yer face.” Ignoring his dark tone, Roadhog curls an arm around Junkrat’s back, his other hand unwrapping a scrawny leg to help him sit up proper. For once, Rat doesn’t fight him, just gives a sigh of relief when he’s able to bend his leg again. It seems like it’d just be insult to injury to say anything.

The kid makes a face and stretches, arching his back dramatically. His hand just _about_ smacks into Roadhog’s face in the process, but right when he’s about to move the little bastard, Junkrat yelps in pain and curls up in a tight ball.

Roadhog makes a curious sound, mumbling. “What was that?” It’s not always clear whether Rat’s actually hurt or if he’s just hamming it up for attention.

“H-Happens sometimes, just wait a tic…” Wriggling awkwardly, Junkrat flattens his hand on his middle and bites his lip. This is real-- he’s not subtle enough to fake that pathetic tremble in his voice. He shudders and whines, this horrible grimace on his face, but it seems to stop just as fast as it started. “There it goes.”

“How long’s that been happening?”

“Whaddyou care?” Junkrat scoffs, flashing a bitter glare. He stays put for a moment, catching his breath and sagging back against Roadhog. Rat’s kinda bony and awkward to hold, but maybe the stupid shit will actually settle down if he stays. Someday, Junkrat’s got to learn how to be still long enough to properly rest without losing his mind.

After a few minutes, Junkrat flinches again, squirming to fit his forehead up under Roadhog's jaw. It's like he's hurting too bad to talk, a disturbing sign; and just like before, he regains his bearings surprisingly fast. Junkrat swallows and closes his eyes, asking weakly. “I’m gonna die, ain’t I?”

Caught off guard, Roadhog pauses and tries to think of a good answer, but Junkrat cuts him off with a high, nervous laugh. “Any day now, I’m just gonna bust open.” He gestures at his stomach, straightening up a bit. “Bam! Blood ‘n guts everywhere, hehe. Always did wanna go out with a bang.”

“Not how it works.” Roadhog knows what he’s doing, the morbid jokes, the jittery touches. He refuses to buy into it.

“It’d be funny though, right? Bits of me everywhere from here to Mexico.” He starts snickering again, patting Roadhog’s chest like he’s expecting him to crack up, too. “Hard ta forget about old ‘mad bomber’ Fawkes when yer still scrapin’ him off everything.” Another soft, shaky giggle escapes him as he gives Roadhog a desperate look. He’s clutching at straws, his brows knit together tensely.

This time, Roadhog doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t dignify that with a response.

“Well? Say something, you fat fuck!” Junkrat grabs Hog’s shirt and gives it a rough pull, feigning like he could actually intimidate someone three times his size. He’s stopped smiling, his eyes going wide and buggy as he yanks on Roadhog’s t-shirt helplessly. “It’d be a real hoot, don’cha think?!”

For a few seconds, he just freezes there, this awful, pleading look on his face. ‘Tell me it’s funny’, it begs. Still, Roadhog stays quiet, letting Junkrat grab and paw at him but not moving a muscle. Finally, the kid forces one last pained grin, leaning on Roadhog until he’s resting his forehead on his collarbone.

“...I don’t wanna die.” Rat takes a slow, shuddering breath, digging his fingers into Roadhog’s shirt. “I-I can’t die yet.” His voice is so small, Hog can barely hear him. The way he screws up his face, fighting not to cry, crosses the line into being hard to look at. Roadhog knows there’s no reasoning with Junkrat like this, so he just threads his fingers through that shabby blond hair and waits for him to get it out of his system.

“I-I was gonna go out with a bang, taking as many fuckers as I could with me.” That wince deepens into a grimace as he presses his cheek to Roadhog’s chest. “It was gonna be fast, yeah, but not this fast.” He can’t physically hold it back anymore, breaking into a heavy sob that racks his whole body. Leaning back against the wall by the bed, Roadhog rests his hand on Rat’s lanky back and holds him close.

Junkrat shakes his head dumbly, murmuring something unintelligible before trailing off into a thin whine. Then he draws a deep, ragged breath and just starts _bawling_. He’s the ugliest crier Roadhog’s ever seen, his nose running and his features screwed up in a miserable knot. His whole frame trembles as he buries his face in Hog’s dingy shirt. It’s not like Roadhog’s unused to seeing people cry like this-- he’s seen grown men on their knees, blood on their heads, begging him to lower his sights. Roadhog isn’t the kind of guy who’s swayed by pathetic displays.

But Rat’s voice cuts into him, hacking away inch by inch as he clings like he’s the last bit of debris in the open ocean. He whimpers and pleads shamelessly. He calls him Mako. Twenty-something years he’s managed to live without calling himself that, without being a person. That way he doesn’t have to feel bad for anything, he has no standards, he’s not responsible for anything but himself.

Except he is. He’s at least half-responsible for this, and he’s definitely responsible for Jamie.

Silent and stiff, Mako pulls the skinny body up to his belly, curling an arm up under his knee to hold his whole weight. He rests his other hand on Jamie’s stomach, making a faint, concerned sound; it feels paper-thin now, rising dramatically with every inhale. There’s no way he stand this much longer. It’s like his innards are trying to spill out, pressed tight against his skin like plastic wrap. His crying’s petered out into a whimper, but the tears just keep coming, and he’s eerily still in Mako’s arms.

“I don’t wanna die.” Rat sniffs loudly and childishly, wiping his face on the back of his hand. He’s finally calmed down, but it’s clearly more of an exhausted calm than anything, his eyes red and ringed by ugly purple-black bags as he glances up at Roadhog. Mako. This is his fault, he should’ve had the sense to know this could happen, and now Jamie’s the one paying for it.

“You won’t.” His tone is low and restrained, his hand starting to stroke at the little guy’s hair again. There’s nothing else he can say here.

“Liar.” Jamie gives a feeble, humorless chuckle. He’s getting that thousand-yard stare again, and Mako’s honestly not sure if that’s a bad thing or not. Cupping his hollow cheek in his hand doesn’t get Jamie’s attention like it usually does.

“You’ve survived worse.” That’s a lie, too, but at least the punk seems to appreciate it this time. He nuzzles into Mako’s palm, closing his eyes gratefully.

“Keep tryin’ ta fool me, old man.” With one last pale imitation of a laugh, he hooks his fingers on Mako’s shirt collar and lets his arm hang there. “Yer gettin’ better at lying.” 

Rat slumps until he’s totally limp, giving a long, drawn-out exhale. He’s not really asleep, just too worn out to continue, and Mako can’t blame him. It’s probably good for him to get as much as rest as he can. Probably. Mako’s no doctor, but Jamie doesn’t seem _right_ like this. He’s pretty sure that getting pregnant doesn’t make most people this sick.  

Eventually he stands up, lifting Junkrat effortlessly and laying him out on the ancient mattress. It’s not easy to look at the poor guy in the light. Jamie's skin and bones except for his distended stomach: reminds Mako of one of those malnourished kids in charity ads. He hasn’t taken care of anyone in a long time, and it still feels wrong to him, but he’s not quite enough of a dick to leave Jamie like this. As much as he tries to be, there’s just a sliver of the old Mako left in him.  
  
As he straightens the wadded-up sheets and drapes them over Jamie in silence, a weird thought occurs to him. Sticking around, doing what he can to keep the little guy comfortable… even if he’s just trying to make up for his own mistakes, this might just be the most decent thing he’s done in twenty years.


	9. Chapter 9

“Rat. Got a job for you.” That low, rumbling voice feels like gravel rattling around in Junkrat’s skull. He glances up from his food, some kind of pre-cooked noodle garbage that he’s been picking the bits of chicken out of. 

“Sod off, I’m busy.” Junkrat spits out something that’s supposed to be a vegetable, eyeing Roadhog bitterly and pulling his good leg close to himself. Taking the gamble of eating, especially anything more than a handful of saltines, always makes him ornery.

“C’mon, get up.” Roadhog yanks the cup away from Junkrat unceremoniously, ignoring the lukewarm noodles he’s dumped into Junkrat’s lap.

“Fucker. What fer? You’re the one who always says I gotta eat more.” It’s more like Junkrat fights tooth and nail not to eat while Roadhog undermines him, but still. He’s being a… damn, what’s that word? Hippocrates. The old Roman guy. Apparently he was a real wanker, because he’s what you compare people like Hog to. 

“We got a stump.” 

“Why…” Junkrat straightens up a bit at that, flashing Roadhog the darkest, most unimpressed look he can muster. “Should I give a shit?” 

Without asking, Hog helps him up with a hand on his back-- he’s about twenty seconds from getting clocked in the side of the head! Nobody fucks with Rat when he doesn’t have his leg, Roadhog ought to know that, he ought to… Ugh. Junkrat just can’t scrape together the energy to blow up at him. Not yet, anyway. 

“You never lived in the country, did you?” The big guy hands him his prosthetic, and Junkrat accepts it without fuss. 

“Not before it all burned down, not really.” He’s been told the outback was pretty different before the omnium: kangaroos that didn’t bite, plants just growing out of the ground wherever they pleased. Weird stuff.

“If you leave a stump in the ground too long, it’ll keep growing.” Throwing Junkrat a coat, Roadhog rumbles. “The roots grow out and get up under the foundation. Fucks up the whole house.”Junkrat glances up at Roadhog skeptically, wincing as he fits his leg into its socket. That doesn’t sound right to him, but he can’t think of any proof to the contrary. 

“Really?” Rat’s tone is restrained, thoughtful. Especially when Hog makes this face like Junkrat’s a damn idiot for doubting him. “...What’re we supposed to do about it?” 

“Can’t just burn it. Sometimes that makes it worse.” Hog lets Junkrat hang on his arm to steady himself; as much as he hates it, the big guy’s gotten pretty good at doing this kind of shit without mouthing off. Always smarter than he looks. “We’ll either rip it out of the ground or blow it up.” That part does make Junkrat perk up a little.

“Woah, woah. Wait. You’re tellin’ me you, ‘Mr. Play-It-Safe’, Mr. ‘No-Fires-Indoors’, Mr. ‘We’re-Layin’-Low’--” 

“The point?”

“You're tellin’ me that you  _ want  _ me to blow shit up now?” This reeks of entrapment, and Junkrat can smell that shit a kilo away! He raises his arms over his head and stretches, trying to act cool and casual to downplay his excitement. “What’s the catch? I ain’t buyin’.”

“You’re free not to. This place isn’t worth shit, we’ll probably never be back here after this trip.” Roadhog shrugs, glancing away so it doesn’t look like he’s staring as Junkrat stumbles around. Smart move. “Just saying, nobody around to hear an explosion.” 

Junkrat thinks hard, worrying his lip as he tests his weight on his bad leg carefully. “So what? Ya want me to shove a buncha perfectly good nitro packs into the damn thing? Waste the rest of me supply?” 

“Up to you.” Heading for the door, Roadhog ties a knot in his scarf-- where the hell does he think he’s going? 

“Alright, alright! You twisted me arm. Where is the damn thing?” Rat has to hurry to get dressed, throwing on random layers of jackets off the floor and hitching up his trousers clumsily. The old man’s already taken his bag, hefting it over his shoulder carelessly as he leads the way outside. “Watch it! You shake that thing around and we’re both blown to kingdom come!” 

All he gets is a grunt in reply. They both know he’s bluffing; he’s been dead out of nitro since he wrecked that motel back in the states. These days, all he’s got to his name is some weak plastic explosives and a couple bottles of accelerant. Nothing they’d even throw you off the bus for! Probably. He’s only been on a couple of buses, and one of them was on fire for most of the trip. Damn, he misses those days.

It’s a long walk to whatever the old fart’s trying to show him, or at least, it feels long with the work of limping and trudging through the snow. This still seems very suspicious to him. How big do tree roots get, anyhow? Do they really get so long that it could mess with the house from all the way up here? But no matter how off it seems to Junkrat, he’s bored enough to humor the idea. What else has he got to do? Rot in that bed til his insides bust out? 

He’s winded and sore by the time they make it to the damn stump-- didn’t help that it had to be uphill. Hog might’ve gotten more subtle about it lately, but he’s still a sadist at heart. Panting softly, he bends over to rest for a second, waiting for Roadhog to double back before yanking the bag out of his hands stubbornly. 

“You think you can get rid of it?” The old man says it like he genuinely has doubts; like Junkrat couldn’t blow up a building with a fucking pack of condiments if he had enough time! 

Junkrat wrinkles his nose resentfully, dropping to his knees and… trying to disguise the little yelp of pain he makes in response. It’s easy to forget he’s not as limber as he used to be. His joints throbbing, Junkrat hisses. “Gimme five minutes.” He’d only need about half of that in a pinch, but he wants to enjoy this. Like a professional, he checks his hardware first, makes sure everything’s dry, clean, and ready to go before packing every knot and crack in the stump full of a cocktail of sticky chemicals. 

Roadhog watches him work patiently, right up until he’s wiring the ignition to the detonator. “Can you get up?” Why’s he have to rub it in? Of course Junkrat can’t! Anybody could take one look at him and tell that! He mutters and cusses to himself, grudgingly taking a hold of Hog’s hand and letting him pull him up onto his feet. Junkrat’s legs wobble, and he’s forced to hang onto Roadhog’s broad arm to keep his balance, but he refuses to let go of the detonator switch. 

They walk together, agonizingly slow, to take cover behind a big tree. The second he gets settled in, he peers out from behind the trunk and mashes the button. Grinning ear to ear, he watches as the stump (and about a two-meter area around it) just  _ evaporates  _ with the blast. 

It takes a fraction of a second for the sound to reach him, but when it does, Hog’s weight is the only thing that stops him from getting bowled over by the shock. Then burning chunks of wood and bark and soil start raining down in sheets, littering the snow and frozen dirt with little flickering sparks. Junkrat watches it all, mesmerized, not even realizing that Roadhog’s all but holding him up with a hand on his shoulder. 

“...Gorgeous, ain’t it?” His eyes light up, every hair on his body standing on end as the last few bits of debris settle into the smoking crater. Right now, Junkrat can’t do much of anything-- every part of him is fucked up somehow, he can’t breathe right, can’t sleep right, can’t eat right. But when he hit that trigger… just for a second, he felt strong again. Leaning against Roadhog’s side wearily, Junkrat smiles, still fixated on the smoldering mess in front of them. 

“...Ya really are the old-fashioned type, eh?” With a weak snicker, Junkrat pats Hog’s back with his good hand. “Givin’ a bloke a last hurrah and all.” 

“Just getting rid of a stump, don’t be dramatic about it.” For somebody built like a brick shit house, body and brain, Roadhog’s being awful transparent. Rat got tired of pity a long time ago, but he also got tired of fighting it. He rests his head on the big guy’s chest quietly, standing there until the very last of the smoke has blown away.

 

* * *

Junkrat gave up on trying to sleep hours ago, resigning himself to picking apart an old motel alarm clock by the fire just to keep his hands busy. He knows these stupid things inside and out by now, could probably slap one together with his eyes closed if he had to, but the nagging pain in his stomach and back make it impossible to rest. And when he can’t rest… well, he has to do something! Anything! 

A sound from the other room catches his attention; soft groaning and incoherent mumbling, just barely loud enough for Junkrat to hear over the crackle of the stove. Something isn’t right. Roadhog normally sleeps like the dead, heedless of what could happen while he’s got his guard down. He sleeps like a man who isn’t afraid of anything.

After getting to his feet with no small amount of work, Junkrat stumbles into the bedroom in a tense silence. It takes a second for his eyes to adjust to the dark. The big guy’s out cold, it seems, but his chest rises and falls in short, rapid bursts. He looks like one of the race horses Rat’s seen on the telly, running so hard it has to struggle to breathe. This hasn’t happened in a while, as far as Junkrat can remember, and definitely not this bad. 

Slow and careful, he climbs into bed with Hog, resting a hand on his tattooed gut. He knows to be bit wary-- once in a while, unconscious Roadhog will just randomly throw a fucking haymaker and deck anyone that happens to be nearby. It only took one good whack for Junkrat to learn his lesson there. 

But this doesn’t seem like one of the punching dreams. Those always happen when it’s quiet, when Rat least expects it. Hog’s face screws up like he’s hurt, and his hands twitch at odd, random moments. Frowning, Junkrat pulls himself up to lean against Roadhog’s chest and studies him nervously. He slaps at the big guy’s stubbly cheek as light as he can, murmuring. 

“Oi. Fatty. You gotta get up, c’mon.” Junkrat’s all nice and considerate at first, even whispering, but it doesn’t do much. Roadhog snorts, kicking weakly like he’s trying to run in his sleep. Damn pitiful is what it is. After a second’s thought, Junkrat winds back and smacks him harshly across the face, immediately ducking in case that wrecking ball fist comes swinging for him.

But instead, Hog just groans and opens his eyes miserably, staring straight up at the ceiling. He blinks and takes a deep, shaky breath, glancing over at Junkrat without a word. 

“You were doin’ that thing again.” Once he’s pretty sure he’s not about to get clobbered, Rat curls up to Roadhog again, resting his head on his broad chest. Roadhog doesn’t respond, but doesn’t complain, either. “Looks fucked up, eyes all movin’ in yer head.”

“...Just dreaming.” Roadhog says that like he’s telling himself more than Junkrat. Giving a low, rumbling sound, he brushes away the silvery strands of hair stuck to his brow with sweat. Neither of them’s gonna sleep for a while now. 

After a few seconds of tense quiet, Junkrat decides to make a move. They’ve got nothing to lose, and hey, sometimes this sort of thing sets Roadhog straight. Worth a try. The hand on Hog’s middle drifts lower, sliding down bit by bit until Junkrat’s palming at him through his pants. He starts to duck his head, trying to tug the big guy’s sweats down, but Roadhog stops him by grabbing his shoulder and easily holds him back.

“Not happening.” 

“What? How come?” Junkrat groans, wriggling free of Roadhog’s grip to lie beside him. “Ya don’t gotta do anything! Just lemme--” 

“I said no.” The look on Roadhog’s face is dark and alert, suddenly very lucid even though he was comatose a second ago. Convincing him won’t be easy. 

“What happened to havin’ a last hurrah? I wanna go out with a bang! Get it? Heh…” Grinning weakly, Junkrat rolls his hips in a pale imitation of flirting. He feels like shit, they both know that, and he’ll probably be no good at this: but damn, he  _ still  _ thinks it’s worth a try. Hell, even if he just gets a quick blowie, Hog’s still making out like a bandit here! “Might be yer last chance to do it.”

“No.” Roadhog pauses for a second, like he’s gonna say something, then sighs and shakes his head. When Junkrat tries to touch him again (real innocent, just stroking his chest the way he likes,) the bastard groans and pushes him away. 

“C’mon…” As soon as he says that, Roadhog rolls over to keep his back to Rat. Junkrat tries to turn him back by pulling on his arm, more for show than for any delusion that he could actually move him. He winds up just huddling against that mountainous back, a little winded from the effort as he glares off into the darkness. 

What else can he do? Somehow, Junkrat has to keep the old man around! As much as he hates it, it’s just a practical issue at this point, and money’s not gonna cut it forever. They’ve got a strings-attached relationship going here-- all relationships have strings attached if you look close enough. Money, power, sex, there’s always something that keeps people together. And what does Junkrat have left to offer? All he’s got is that useless treasure, and it’s buried six feet deep in radioactive dust on the other side of the world! 

He sighs, fitting his cheek against a massive shoulder blade and closing his eyes. The way his stomach tosses and turns hurts enough on its own, but then these cramps that come and go hit him and he’s just… He tries and fails to smother a little whimpering noise, biting his lip to try and keep himself quiet. 

Everybody that works with someone has something that keeps them together, but he won’t let that thing be pity. Junkrat would just about rather kick the bucket by himself than live with the idea that Roadhog, a man who’s shot limbs off and cracked skulls under his boot, feels  _ sorry  _ for him. Sure, Junkrat accepted a long time ago that he’d never understand what’s going on in that overcooked brain of his, but that’d be one blow to his pride he just can’t take! 

So he sucks it up, screwing his eyes shut and telling himself that it’ll stop soon. It’s nothing, gotta be nothing. Damn thing’s not supposed to be ready for another month, at least. Junkrat doesn’t come close to falling asleep, doesn’t hear the big guy snoring either, but they both stay put out of sheer stubbornness. 

The sun starts to come up and they’re still there, and Junkrat’s all but shaking with pent-up tension, the sense of something horrible about to happen hanging over his head.


	10. Chapter 10

By the time Roadhog gets sick of pretending to sleep, Junkrat hobbles to the glorified closet of a bathroom and locks himself inside to pout like a teenage girl. Roadhog’s tired, physically and mentally, so he decides to just let him go. He gets up and eats breakfast, enjoys an unusually quiet cup of tea, puts his feet up in the den. It’s nice. This place is peaceful without the constant chatter and the grimy hands always grabbing and touching him without asking. ...It’s nice at _first_ , but quickly turns out to be a bit too peaceful for a guy like him.

After waiting up a while, he finally caves in and humors the punk, knocking on the bathroom door and bracing himself for whatever bullshit Junkrat’s come up with.

“Open the door, I’ve gotta piss.”

It takes a long time for Rat to respond. “Fuck off. Go outside.” His voice is very weak, shaky. He sounds like he’s been throwing up again.

“Stop being a little shit. Open the door or I will.” Roadhog grabs a hold of the doorknob, forcing it to it squeak and click ominously.

“Fuck. Off.”

It’s impressively stupid, even for Junkrat: he genuinely thinks three inches of shitty particle board will stop Roadhog. He presses his shoulder to the door and pushes, the wood immediately cracking and bowing under his weight until it snaps. The hinges hold out, surprisingly, but they get ripped right out of the frame as Roadhog wrenches the door free and drops it to the side carelessly.

There’s blood everywhere. Junkrat’s slumped against the edge of the bathtub, his arm draped over the dingy rim and his legs spread out in front of him uselessly. His pants are soaked through, and he’s left filmy red fingerprints on nearly every surface in the room.

“...Thought I told you to fuck off.” Rat’s voice trembles, his eyes still bright and focused as he glares up at Roadhog. Under a thin veneer of anger, he oozes pain and terror.

“Rat…” There’s no words for how crazy this is. What was he planning to do? Lie here on the linoleum and bleed out? Roadhog can’t just leave him here to die next to the toilet. That’s pretty pathetic, even for Junkrat. He bends down, carefully curling a hand under Junkrat’s good knee, but the little guy yelps and struggles as soon as he tries to lift him.

“Don’t! H-Hurts too bad.” Junkrat pants rapidly, clawing at his stomach like he’s trying to tear himself open. Hard to blame him. Roadhog kneels down, patiently helping Rat curl an arm around his neck and bracing a hand against his scrawny back to help him to his feet. The poor guy wobbles and shivers like a baby deer, but holds tight to Roadhog and manages to walk back into the bedroom with only a little help supporting his weight.

“Didn’t want ya to see this.” He crumples down on the bed with a groan, closing his eyes to steady himself. “Thought, ‘H-hey, nobody wants to go out like this, right? All sick and fucked up? Hoggy’d understand.’” Junkrat closes his eyes, and without the wild, darting glances, Roadhog can see how pale and exhausted he looks.

“Just… shut up for a minute.” The first aid book Roadhog picked up does cover some of this, but things already seem to be going wrong. There’s so much blood; it can’t be normal, right? Sitting down on the bed next to Rat, he helps the little guy out of his broken prosthetic and, with some half-assed complaints, his ruined sweat pants as well.

As far as he can tell, it’s okay. Two pages of crappy illustrations and passages that always end with ‘get to a hospital as soon as possible’ means he doesn’t have a lot to go on. There’s nothing falling out of him yet, so there’s still time.

“Fuckin’... hurry up an’ shoot me, mate.” Junkrat groans, letting his head loll back against the pillows.

“I-It’s too early, right? Supposed to be another month…” As soon as Roadhog lets him go, Junkrat tries to pull his knees up to his chest defensively. He has to settle for bending his good leg and shying away from Roadhog.

“Sometimes it happens early.” That’s all Roadhog can tell him-- that’s as much as he knows. “Works out fine.” That part he doesn’t know, but he tells Junkrat anyway. There’s no use freaking him out even more, after all. If this kills him, he should at least spend the last few hours feeling as calm and comfortable as he can get.  
  
“Liar.” Rolling onto his side, Junkrat curls into himself and whines. For a minute, all he can do is lie there and pant, his ribs forced up against his skin with every inhale. He curses and mutters to himself, shaking a little when Roadhog flattens a hand against his back.

“Be still.” All he can do is try to calm Rat down. Every muscle along his spine is hard and painfully tense as he struggles to contain himself, a tight ball of hurt and frustration and rage. Leaning down beside him, Roadhog rubs at his bony shoulder, pulling the little guy against him slowly.

Junkrat almost cooperates, going limp for a moment, but then the pain seems to flare up again and he starts fighting. He kicks and punches blindly, gnashing his teeth and squirming frantically to get away from Hog’s hands.

It’s just like the first couple days after he lost his leg; he was feverish and mad at the world, ready to lash out at anything he could. The only time he slept was when the painkillers knocked him out, and every word out of his mouth was some kind of insult. He’d curse Roadhog, his mother, everyone that ever had anything to do with him, almost like he wanted to get his face bashed in. Maybe he did.

He lets go, pulling his hand away so that Rat won’t bite him, and the little guy writhes uselessly against the sheets for a second before he burns out and goes quiet again. What’s Roadhog supposed to do here? There has to be something he can do, right?

“...You want some water?” Junkrat doesn’t respond for a second, just swallows and then goes back to breathing quick and uneven. Finally, he gives a quick nod, so Mako picks himself up and stumbles into the kitchen. Listening to the kid moan and cuss in the next room, Mako’s kind of in a fog, just going through his actions dumbly and mechanically.

As soon as Roadhog hands over the glass, Junkrat drinks greedily, chugging until he has to come up for air. “I’ve gotta tell ya.”

“...Tell me what?”

Junkrat licks his lips, his tired eyes roaming over the bed thoughtfully. “Where I buried it. The treasure.”

“Don’t.” Roadhog grunts and shakes his head, sluggishly easing down next to Rat.

“I’ve gotta.” Tossing the empty glass aside, Junkrat starts fiddling with his prosthetic arm, running his fingers along an almost invisible seam in the metal near the wrist. Roadhog knew there was a reason he refused to part with that piece of crap. “Wrote it down, so I wouldn’t forget. I knew I’d forget.”   
  
He gives a feeble, humorless laugh, but his smile fades when Hog grabs his good hand to stop him from opening the hidden panel.

“You shouldn’t.” Roadhog tugs Junkrat’s hand away from the latch, urging the kid to look up at him. “Even if I knew where it was, how stupid would I have to be to go and get it? It’s better off just staying buried--”

“No, fuck you! You got any idea what I done... w-what I had to do to keep that thing?!” A spark of that wildness and anger, the real Junkrat, flickers back into his expression as he snaps. “Listen here, fatass. When I kick the bucket, you’re going out there and you’re digging that fucking thing up. It ain’t goin’ to waste, you hear me?”

Still squeezing Junkrat’s flesh-and-bone hand, Roadhog pauses but nods silently. Rat’s right. Roadhog only knows a fraction of what this guy’s been through on account of his ‘treasure’, and the parts he does know are pretty bad.

Junkrat yanks his hand free and finishes opening up the compartment in his arm, producing a smeared, crumpled piece of paper. He smooths it out on his knee and hands it to Roadhog, even though it’s just a series of incomprehensible scribbles and symbols that Roadhog can only guess were once meant as a map. He takes it anyway. It’s not like him to deal with the whole ‘last request’ nonsense. Junkrat’s just lucky to be a rare exception.

“...Good, good. Got that taken care of.” Rat screws his eyes shut and starts panting again, his whole body tensing up sharply in anticipation. This time, though Roadhog braces himself for more squirming and clawing, Junkrat doesn’t fuss. He huddles up to Hog’s side, shivering and pressing his forehead to his chest. This happened when he blew off his leg, too. Eventually he ran out of energy for fighting and... collapsed. Roadhog doesn’t say anything, just lets Junkrat cling to him and starts rubbing absentmindedly at his back. At least it’ll be over soon. It’s got to be.

 

* * *

 

It’s taking so much longer than Mako thought. He’s too tired to bother with anything unnecessary at this point: even the name ‘Roadhog’ seems like a waste of time. ‘Roadhog’ isn’t the kind of guy who sits around for fifteen hours helping a sick punk choke down bits of ice just so he can throw up again. That’s all Mako.

“I-I havta walk… Help me up, mate.” Junkrat reaches for him feebly, and Mako curls an arm around his back, steadying him so he can lift himself up.

“You sure? You fell last time.” Mako’s tone is low and groggy, exhausted. He never did have the stamina that Rat does.

“Yeah, yeah. I got it. Havta walk, it’ll help. Helps a little.” His good hand hooked around Mako’s forearm, Junkrat takes a deep breath and plants his foot on the ground. That plastic prosthetic acts like it’ll give out at any moment, but Junkrat heaves himself up stubbornly, and Mako knows that he’s gonna try to do this with or without help. He coaxes the kid to lean most of his weight on him, leading Junkrat around the room like a seeing eye dog. They make a couple of clumsy rounds, pacing back and forth, before Rat suddenly yelps in pain.

“Ah! Stopstopstop!” Junkrat’s legs crumple out from under him, and he clings to Mako with all his strength, struggling to keep himself from hitting the ground. With a soft, concerned sound, Mako hefts him up and eases him back onto the bed-- despite his frantic cries to stop moving him.

The poor guy is nothing but a trembling pile on the sheets, beads of sweat rolling down his face freely. Even though he’s probably never weighed so much in his life, he looks so _small_ , huddled up with his good leg folded beneath him and his hand clutching at his stomach.

Mako sits down and pulls Junkrat up against his chest, smoothing his damp, disheveled hair back gently. Rat doesn’t respond much one way or another, like he’s still too busy trying to catch his breath.

“Mako...” Junkrat glances up at him miserably, his eyes blurry and unfocused. It looks like he might be starting to get delirious. Good for him. “I-I think I can feel it.” His hand trails down over his stomach, resting just above the crook of his thigh. “It hurts…”

For a moment, Mako listens to that labored, desperate panting, and the last of his inhibition crumbles to weariness. Pressing his forehead to Rat’s, feeling the sickly heat radiate off him, he closes his eyes and murmurs. “Jamie…” If Mako doesn’t use his real name, the last time he’ll have heard it from would be the guards and wardens in that Brazilian prison.

“I’ve got you.” It feels like an empty sentiment, but Mako’s never been good with words. Jamie curls his arm around Mako’s neck, sniffling loudly and burying his face in his shoulder.

He just stays there for a while, too weak and too sore to pick himself up, soaking Mako’s shirt in tears and sweat. With a shaky sob, Jamie spreads his legs apart and shifts, whimpering like he honestly doesn’t know what to do. Mako thought this sort of thing was supposed to be instinctual, but he ought to know better than to assume Jamie’s instincts work.

“Hh… Feel it movin’! It won’t…” Jamie chokes back a cry, balling his hand on top of his belly and pressing down on it uselessly. “It’s stuck!” Frustration writ heavy in his face, he digs his heel into the bed in an attempt to steady himself.

“You have to push it out.” Mako speaks softly, carefully. He cups the underside of Jamie’s thigh, helping him hold that pose. The little guy's struggling just to stay conscious, he needs all the help he can get.

“Fuck d’you... think I‘m… Tryin’ to do?” Gritting his teeth, Jamie bears down so hard that Mako can see his muscles tense up, along with the way he squares his shoulders and doubles over as far as he can. He makes a low, guttural noise and strains for several seconds, putting all his strength into it. When he stops, he’s fighting to breathe, his chest rising and falling in short, rapid bursts.

It goes on and on like that, Jamie pushing with everything he’s got and whining in disappointment when nothing happens. That long list of things that could go wrong starts droning in Mako’s head again: it could be too big, Jamie could be too weak, he could be bleeding internally… But when he glances down, his breath catches in his throat. He can see it! It’s coming out!

“One more time.” Maybe, just maybe, there’s a chance that one or even both of them could survive this. It almost scares Mako how easily he gets his hopes up.

“I-I can’t! Can’t…” Jamie pants thinly, sagging against Mako’s chest. He starts to close his eyes, threatening to slip into unconsciousness, but Mako shakes him awake.

“No choice.” Mako squeezes his shoulder tighter to keep him alert, watching intently as Jamie bears down one last time. A low, ragged groan escapes him, and he shudders with the effort of pushing.

Suddenly, and without any more fanfare, a tiny body drops onto the sheets.

“Rat-- Jamie! It’s...” Mouth hanging open in shock, Mako looks down at the Jamie and shakes him again, but he’s already passed out. His eyes flutter shut and he goes limp in Mako’s arms, resting his red, damp cheek against Mako’s collarbone. A finger on the crook of his neck confirms that he’s still got a pulse. Maybe it’s best just to let him rest for a minute-- can’t say he hasn’t earned it.

After easing Jamie back against the pillows, Mako bends to investigate the… the baby, swallowing anxiously when he sees it move. It’s alive. He can’t say he expected that. The newborn gives a watery gasp, kicking feebly and balling its (his) tiny hands into fists. When Mako pulls away the ruined sheets and reaches for him, he’s stricken by just how small he is. The baby’s entire body can be held up in one hand, and when Mako rests him on his knee, he feels like he’s holding a naked rodent instead of a human being.

Mako uses a pocket knife from the bedside table to cut the cord, (he ties off the ends, like the book said,) and then he realizes he’s alone with this frail, shrieking creature. Jamie’s out cold, his face eerily white as he takes quick, shallow breaths. With an exhausted sigh, he wraps the baby in a towel and sits down next to Jamie.   
  
They’re both alive-- for now, at least-- and it’s on Mako’s head to keep them that way. He wishes he could say it didn’t matter to him, but he’s just not that kind of guy. God knows he’s tried to be, and his life would be easier if he were, but he isn’t.


	11. Chapter 11

Junkrat’s sleeping better than he has in half a year. No. A whole year, easy. Or maybe he’s dead. Either way, he’s happy.

It’s all lovely until this shrill, horrible squealing noise jars him awake. He groans and curls up on his side, screwing his eyes shut, but a massive paw drops down on him and gives him a clumsy shake. No matter how Junkrat tries to ignore him and go back to sleep, Roadhog keeps shaking him, careful but obnoxiously persistent. 

Finally, Junkrat rolls over onto his back and rasps, “...Sod off, I‘m dead.”

“Yeah, well, guess I’m in hell with you,” Roadhog murmurs. Damn, Junkrat hates how much sense that makes. He opens one eye a sliver, swallowing dryly and letting Hog prop him up into a seated pose. It wouldn’t matter if he resisted or not; there isn’t an ounce of strength left in him. Everything hurts. Junkrat feels like he got run over a few times, thrown off a cliff, and then left to bake in the sun for a few days, all mysteriously without dying. 

“Don’ make me get up. Think me insides may fall right out.” Roadhog’s repulsively gentle with him, holding Rat against his chest and resting a hand against the aching swell of his stomach. Wait. That reminds Junkrat of something. “What happened with the, er… the thing?” It didn’t make it, did it? Couldn’t have.

Roadhog looks surprised, letting Junkrat use his forearm to straighten himself up a little more. “It… He’s alive. Doing okay, I guess.” That’s a hell of a lot better than Junkrat expected. He opens his eyes for real this time, glancing around hazily to try and get a look at the thing. There’s still that shrill, kitten-ish noise in the background, but he can’t quite pinpoint where it’s coming from.

“A bloke, huh?” Junkrat laughs hoarsely, resting his head on Hog’s shoulder. “Is he the real deal, or… yanno, like me?” His tone is awful chipper, he thinks, especially for somebody too weak to hold himself up without help.

“He’s normal, far as I can tell. Ten fingers and toes.” The big guy looks awful, his hair down in tangles around his face and his eyes all red and weary.

“Doin’ better than me, then.” His face buried in Roadhog’s dingy shirt, Junkrat comes so, so close to passing out again. But every time he starts to nod off, the crying seems to get louder and louder, until his curiosity gets the best of him. “...Hey, lemme see it.”

“You sure?” Roadhog sounds pretty thrown by that, though Junkrat doesn’t understand why. The little shit tried to rip him in half, he figures he at least deserves a good word with it.

With a resigned huff, Hog props Junkrat up on the wall behind the bed and heaves himself to his feet. He pads over to an open suitcase, perched carefully on the chair by the door, and lifts up a squirming, wadded t-shirt.

Inside is this red, squashed-looking creature, its face screwed up in an angry knot and its voice a high, trembling wail. It thrashes uselessly with both hands and feet, grabbing at the air like it wants to pull itself up. Er, _he_ wants that. The thought of talking about this thing like a person makes something down in Junkrat’s chest twist uneasily.

“That it?” Junkrat leans over to see it better, giving a dismissive noise. With all the trouble that took, he expected it to be at least twice this size! He makes a face and wheezes. “ _Damn_ , he’s ugly.”

Roadhog just grunts, sitting down on the other side of the bed and holding the wriggling thing in the crook of his arm so Junkrat can get a closer look. Just turning onto his side hurts his like hell, but he gets distracted fast. It’s second nature for him to get distracted. Wrinkling his nose, he peels some of the cloth back and studies the creature.

“Sure somethin’ ain’t wrong with him? He looks like… like one a’ those dried up fruit things.” Did Junkrat do something wrong? Who’s he kidding, he did everything wrong. Look at this sorry bastard.

“Nah, that’s just how they look.” Roadhog’s voice is soft, softer than Junkrat thinks he’s ever heard from him. Sounds like a whole different person when he talks like that.

Junkrat leans against the big guy’s side, reaching out and clumsily grabbing one of the baby’s red, pudgy hands between his thumb and index finger. He squeezes lightly, cackling at how the little thing squeaks in response. With Hog’s gaze oddly fixed on him, Junkrat pokes and prods, his touch shaky but light. Eventually his pale fingertips start combing through thin, patchy hair, and Junkrat studies this tiny almost-person in a kind of quiet fascination.

“Heh. Black hair. Dunno how that happened.” Wait. That’s bad, right? It takes Junkrat a second to realize how that could be bad. “D-Don’ look at me funny, mate! You know there weren’t no odds of me goin’ behind your back, or--”

“Rat.” Roadhog groans, resting his head in his hand like he’s got one of his my-grains. “I used to have black hair.”

“Oh. ...Makes sense, then.” Junkrat flashes a dumb, crooked grin, stroking absentmindedly at the kid’s fluffy mess of hair. His thoughts flutter quickly from one idea to another, and he moves from petting the kid to petting Hog cheerfully. “You musta been handsome.”

“You’re delirious.” Even that doesn’t sound like it ought to, Junkrat thinks. The old man’s not mad or even irritated, just tired. Hell, if he didn’t know better, he’d say that Roadhog even looks worried! Junkrat teases him a bit, twirling a strand of fine, ashy hair between his fingertips. Maybe he wants to get on his nerves. Maybe he wants him to sound normal again.

“Probably, yeah.” Sniggering faintly, Junkrat shivers and huddles up to Hog’s arm. Then _clinging_ to it. It’s suddenly really cold in here, or maybe he’s just now noticing it. Nobody else seems to mind, not even the kid, but Junkrat’s sure it’s freezing. Taking a shaky breath, he curls his hand against Roadhog’s arm and huddles up to him, fitting himself against the big guy’s side however he can. Roadhog shifts the brat to his other arm, so Rat can clamber around on him without crushing it.

“S-So, what’s our next move, eh? We gettin’ back on the road?” Junkrat drums his fingers against Roadhog’s chest, smiling hopefully. "Back to business?" 

It’s over now, right? So they can go back to normal: doing whatever they want, taking the world one town at a time, all that stuff. God, he misses the smell of kerosene. The sooner they blow this dump, the better! They’ll ditch the brat at the first place that’ll take him, and then they’re free as birds! Right? Right.

“Can’t do anything 'til you get better.” Figures. Just like the old man to play it safe: all he’s done for the last three months is play it safe.

The worst part is that Junkrat’s in no shape to go against him, and they both know it.

He groans in frustration, burying his face in Hog’s shirt to try and stifle the fluttering in his ears. It’s still so loud! Junkrat assumed that it would be over after… when the kid came out, but it hasn’t stopped. Even though the pain’s died down to a hazy misery, none of the other problems stopped. He’s so weak that he can lift his arm for a few seconds, only for it to drop back to his side, trembling, if he tries to hold it too long. If he breathes too deep, he can feel his heartbeat in his throat.

Roadhog gives Junkrat a funny look, that lousy hurt-sad look that makes Junkrat’s stomach knot up.

“...You need a doctor.” He glances down at the kid, the sheets, anything to keep from looking Junkrat in the face. It’s another one of those tiny details that pisses Rat off more than he even knows how to say.

“Fuck that! They’ll turn us in.” Junkrat hisses and pulls himself up on Roadhog’s shoulder, ignoring how his vision goes blurry for a minute. “All docs are narks! You know that!”

“Calm down. Better to get arrested in a hospital than die out here, right?”

“Maybe for you!” Junkrat visibly shakes with rage, pounding and clawing on Hog’s arm feebly. It’s like hitting a slab of concrete, but he wants to make it clear that he would tear into the bastard if he could. “You don’t mind goin’ to prison?! Shit no! Whole different deal for you, innit?!”

Even with him shouting so hard that his whole body was shivering, Roadhog had the nerve to talk back to him. “Rat, you’re not thinking right--"

“No, fuck you! You ain’t thinking right!” Junkrat yanks on the old man’s shirt angrily. “We die before we let them lock us up! Remember that? That’s what we always said, remember?” He feels lightheaded, like he’s bleeding out, but he just keeps blathering so fast that his brain can’t really keep up with his mouth. “I can’t go back, Hog, you know I can’t! They’ll take my arm ‘n leg, t-they’ll take me and… a-and…”

“Stop. You’re hyperventilating.” Roadhog cups Junkrat’s head in one of his enormous hands, running his thumb back and forth over his hair. That one little motion shuts him down as fast as any sedative he's ever been jabbed with.

Junkrat can’t cry; he’s too exhausted, he did all the bitching and crying he could take last night. So he just mouths wordlessly, struggling to think of something to say. Whining softly, he leans into Hog’s hand and lets his eyes droop shut.

“I can’t…” His own voice is just a distant murmur in his ears. Junkrat wants to stay awake, he wants to yell at the old man, but… well, him being half-dead sure ended up being convenient for Hog, didn’t it?

“You’re not going back to prison.’’ Roadhog sighs wearily, pulling Junkrat’s head up under his chin. Tricky old bastard. Junkrat tries to shrink away, hating the way he flinches when Roadhog rests a hand on his sore middle. His spirit’s broken down so much, he’s not just being treated like he’s sick and frail anymore. He’s starting to _feel_ that way.

For fuck’s sake, if he has to die, it better happen quickly. All this lying around, being pitied and cared for-- it’s torture! He can’t take much more of it! At this point, Junkrat wants to either get better or kick the bucket.

One or the other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work and home obligations have slowed down the update schedule, but I've got no plans to stop. Thank you all for reading this far!


	12. Chapter 12

Roadhog peers out the window. Through the haze of snow, he can see that the cabin’s stilts are nearly buried. Great. This place just keeps getting better. He’s dragged the armchair into the bedroom, half because he’s wary of leaving Junkrat alone and half because he sleeps better in the chair anyway.

The poor bastard has floundered with his health all day-- it’s always one step forward, two steps back. He got his prosthetics on, made the walk to the bathroom, and then immediately threw up in the tub. He insists he’s feeling better, even ate a little, but he pants and sweats almost constantly, even when he tries to sleep.

Roadhog knows he can’t hold out like this long. Junkrat’s not just sick, he’s _drained_ , all the strength has bled right out of him. He knows what anemia looks like, and he knows what a bad fever looks like. Their time is definitely limited.

Watching the poor guy trying to write, his hand trembling too bad to hold the pen, Roadhog comes to a decision. It’s not supposed to be his decision, but it’s on him now anyway, and he doesn’t hesitate.

He’s getting this little shit to a hospital, whether he likes it or not. They’re all about freedom, sure, that’s their bit, they’d rather die than be caged, all that good stuff. But just like Rat refuses to let go of whatever he found down in the omnium, Roadhog refuses to sit back and watch both him and the kid die. He didn’t put so much work into this punk-- so much physical and mental energy, so much time, so much risk-- just to watch him waste away.

As much as he hates to think it, Junkrat deserves better than that.

“We’re going,” Roadhog grunts. He stands and picks up a duffel, starting to sweep everything off the tables and windowsill with his arm and cram it all into a bag. This is how they always pack in a hurry: just take whatever they can carry and figure out what’s trash later.

“What? The hell you mean ‘we’re going’?” Shoving his crumpled mass of ‘memoirs’ aside, Junkrat leans his weight onto his good arm, stooped over the kid like a dingo with a fresh kill. The newborn basically hasn’t left the bed since Rat became semi-lucid again, and his insistence on “keeping an eye on the little fuck” has started to get unsettling. It’s impossible to guess what Junkrat will do sometimes, and the last thing they need is for him to do something crazy like getting attached to the kid. He’s unpredictable like that, after all. Odds are just as good that he’ll try and eat the baby to ‘take back what’s his’ or something.

“You heard me.” Roadhog yanks the shabby quilt off the bed for emphasis. “Get your coat, put some pants on.”

“What happened to laying low?” His eyes wandering around suspiciously, Junkrat adds, “you’re not making any sense, mate.”

“You need a hospital. Checked the map, closest is about an hour and a half southeast.”

“Fuck off! I already told you, no doctors.” Junkrat scoops the kid up close to his side lazily, holding him with a hand on his back despite being told specifically he shouldn’t do that. “Nothin’ good ever happened to me in the ol’ meat grinder, piggy, and they didn’t have damn cops crawling all over the place.”

“The meat grinder isn’t like a real hospital, Rat.” Junkrat’s been to one, arguably more than once, he just doesn’t remember either of those incidents. First time he was out cold with a head injury, second time they pumped him so full of painkillers that he forgot his arm was fake and chipped a tooth trying to bite his fingernails. They made it out fine both times.

“Real hospital’s gonna nark us out, Hog. You know that.” Junkrat’s eyes dart around the room uneasily, like he’s looking for a way out. If he feels like he has to, he’ll absolutely try to crawl his gimpy ass out the window and into the snow. To stop him, Roadhog grabs a hold of his bony shoulder, his hand closing around the kid’s entire forearm easily. “Can’t go back, I can’t. Like to’ve died the last time they locked us up.”

“They can’t keep us anywhere. _You know that_.” Roadhog recalls that the last time they were behind bars, they only stayed a couple of weeks altogether before Rat flooded the first two stories with caustic gas. They had to open the cells to keep the inmates from suffocating or melting alive, and the chaos that came after made it easy to break out.

Compared to that, what kind of hospital does Junkrat think could hold them?

“We can ditch the kid as soon as we get there,” Roadhog offers. He’s nearly ready to just sling Junkrat over his shoulder and haul him outside, but it’d be a lot easier with his cooperation, especially when it comes to managing the brat. “Get you fixed up, dump him, bail before they have a chance to stop us.” That sounds pretty appealing to Roadhog, but he knows how to make it even sweeter for Junkrat. “Then we’d get started planning the next job.”

“...Yeah. Yeah, guess so.” Junkrat drums his fingers rapidly against the grungy mattress, his good hand clutching his chin in thought. Every time the baby starts to roll off his lap, he scoots him back absentmindedly, handling him like a little kid handles a doll.

The guy’s way too quiet for a few minutes, even when Roadhog finishes stuffing the bags shut. It feels like a bad omen, so against all better instincts, he tries to break the silence. “We’ll hit Toronto, like you said.” Roadhog doesn’t hesitate to ply Junkrat with thoughts of mayhem and violence. “Art museums.”

“Yeah, yeah. But… we gotta turn the kid over to those people?” _Goddamn_ it. “Jus’ saying, how do we know they won’t chop him up or something? Sell him to some factory, or toss him down the trash--”

“Because that kind of shit happens in Junkertown, not up here.” It’s not Junkrat’s fault, the way he always assumes the worst like one of those paranoid bunker people. That’s just the world he grew up in. The world where things are terrible right on the surface instead of being buried under layers of nice promises. “Besides, what do you care?”

“I don’t!” Rat bristles defensively, curling his hand in the sheets. “I thought you did! You were the one who was all ‘ooh, don’t do that, it’s bad for the kid’ for the last ten months!”

“Four.” Roadhog knows the guy has a mangled sense of time, but that was exaggerating, even for him. “And I was doing my job, dumbass. If you messed yourself up too bad, you wouldn’t survive pushing the brat out.”

Junkrat just scoffs childishly, hissing, “Right, whatever. Anyway, we just gotta have a plan. Always have a plan, that’s your M.O., right?” Usually, Junkrat is the idea guy, the one who plots things out. All Roadhog does is poke holes like ‘don’t torch the building while we’re standing in it’. It balances out to a fifty-fifty deal: Junkrat has the grand schemes, the wild ambition, the just-so-crazy-it-might-just-work schemes, and Roadhog keeps those schemes from killing both of them.

Sort of awkwardly scooting out from under the baby, Junkrat gets to his feet shakily and fumbles for his pants on the floor. He mutters to himself as he goes, something about how heard oxygen tanks blow when you start them burning, he could probably use that. It’s good to hear him sound like the twisted bastard he’s supposed to be, even if he’s clearly on the brink of collapsing the entire time.

“Alright. We get in, toss the brat, get out. Got it?” Rat bundles up clumsily in layers of warm pajamas and dingy sweats, topping it all off by draping the quilt over his shoulders like a cape. He looks like a feeble old man, his skinny frame dwarfed by the heavy clothes around him.

“You have to let them look at you.” That’s the real challenge. When the prison doctors tried to give them physicals, Roadhog mostly just sat down and refused to cooperate. Wasn’t a whole lot they could do without knocking him out and getting four people to move him. But for what he heard, Junkrat went absolutely mental. Screamed like a lunatic, kicked until they took his leg away, and bit a chunk out of the nurse’s hand.

“...We’ll see, Hoggy. We’ll see.”

“Not good enough.”

“Damn, you’re killin’ me! Might as well walk my ass up to the meat grinder at gunpoint.” Junkrat fidgets angrily, raking a hand through his unkempt hair until it sticks out at odd angles. “Fine. I’ll let ‘em poke and prod whatever they want, and when they knock me out, scramble what’s left of me brain, you’ll be satisfied then, yeah? Make me a vegetable, can’t even talk anymore...”

“Maybe. It’d make you more fun on road trips.” Okay, Junkrat has to admit, he walked right into that one.

“Fuck off.” Junkrat manages to stumble into some pants, (panting a little and swearing under his breath the whole time, but still,) and glares up at Roadhog stubbornly. “See? I’m fine. Never been better.”

At this point, Roadhog doesn’t even have to say ‘bullshit’. He thinks that response is a _given_. Is Junkrat really stupid enough to die over his paranoia? Goes without saying.

“Okay.” Roadhog’s exhausted. He’s cold and sore and so damn sick of Junkrat’s nonsense. But he still knows better than to expect this dipshit to listen to reason. “Tell you what. If you can reload the scrap gun by yourself, I’ll back off.” It’s a blow below the belt, but it has to be done. “You can sit on your ass and bleed out all you want, and I’ll take the kid myself.”

“Fuck. Off. I don’t haveta prove anything to you!” Junkrat wobbles a bit until he sits back down, his hands curled into fists against his lap.

“How the hell are you gonna pull off a heist if you can’t even lift a gun?” At the very least, it’s still easy to goad Rat into doing anything. Roadhog doesn’t like to do it, mostly because it makes him feel like a snotty twelve year old, but it _is_ effective.

“Gimme the damn thing, then! I’ll take it apart, clean it, fix the cracked barrel, you name it.” Digging it out of the bottom of the bag, Roadhog takes his heavy scrap gun and hands it over, along with the cluttered little box of tools that Junkrat’s accumulated. “Gotten real smug, haven’t ya? Just watch, I made this thing, I know it inside and out.”

Resting the gun in his lap, Junkrat visibly struggles to hold it in some way that doesn’t make the weight of the piece dig into his bony leg. He ends up balancing it precariously on his prosthetic, holding it tight by the stock with his mechanical hand and trying to flip open the chamber. Just as Roadhog thought, his real hand’s shaking too badly to get a grip on the tiny screws and locks-- Rat fumbles with it for a second, swearing under his breath, but it’s just not working. He switches hands, and then he can’t hold it steady. He tries a screwdriver and, failing that, a pair of pliers, but it’s so useless that it lapses out of proving Roadhog’s point and into just being pathetic.  

“Goddamn,” Junkrat hisses. Finally, he lets the gun slip out of his grasp and fall to the floor noisily, balling his hands into fists. “This don’t prove anything! The launcher ain’t as heavy! I’ll get by on one”

“You seriously think you could aim worth for shit like this?” He couldn’t even hold up a gas station in his condition, and they both know it. “Think you can ask the cops nicely to stop shooting while you run off and puke your guts out?”

 “...We’ll be in and out, right? Leave guns blazing?” His eyes dart around nervously; Roadhog can almost hear him struggling to weigh the risks of the situation. Makes him look stranger and sicker than ever, seeing that kind of focus on his face.

 “Have we ever left anywhere quietly?”

Rat screws his eyes shut, drumming his hand on his knee erratically. After hesitating for a few minutes, he doesn’t say anything, just grabs the kid and his half-assed ‘swaddling’ so he can zip it all up into his coat. It’s a white flag, coming from him, and it’s probably the best Roadhog’s gonna get.

 

* * *

 

“Ready?” They’ve loaded everything into the sidecar and saddlebags-- well, Roadhog loaded it, Junkrat mostly just sat on the splintery steps and barked orders-- and knocked enough ice off the bike to allow it to start. Roadhog’s eager to get moving before the sun sets and the weather goes from ‘possible frostbite’ to ‘freezing to death in ten minutes’. He wraps his face in a cheap, scratchy scarf, knowing it won’t do him any more good than the tattered work gloves or the poorly-fitting boots. The bike isn’t built for this cold, Roadhog’s not, and Rat sure as hell isn’t. Hog can’t wait to get out of this frozen hellhole.

“I been ready since we got here, porkchop. Let’s blow this place.” Junkrat clambers up into his narrow seat in the sidecar, shielded by piles of bags and a heavy canvas to keep out the worst of the snow. It takes him a couple of tries to get to the top of the stack, climbing with the kid more or less pinned against his chest. Reminds Roadhog of an emaciated King Kong, but he knows better than to try and help. Junkrat wouldn’t appreciate the gesture, and Roadhog doesn’t want to make it anyway. They’ve got an understanding that way.

“You didn’t do anything to the cabin, right?” They could still use that place at some point, just as a flophouse to lay low for a couple days. The gas was cut off ages ago, but where there’s a will, there’s a way. There’s always a will with Junkrat.

“What, me? Nah, I was too busy dyin’.” Still on the dying thing. Roadhog sighs irritably as he climbs up on the bike; Rat’s been calling himself a ‘ghost’ for the last couple of days, and it got old fast. At this point, it feels like it would take another Omnium to kill this lunatic.

Raising his voice over the sputtering engine, Roadhog barks. “Just keep the kid warm and don’t fall out of the car.” He’s just as eager to get this over with as anyone. The Junkrat’s touchy-feely act toward the kid is… sort of disturbing, to say the least, and Roadhog is sick of babysitting him. He misses the days when he could take off too fast, watch Junkrat get knocked out of the sidecar by the force, and laugh as the little guy struggled to chase him on foot. Usually he’d make it a block or two, then stop, let Junkrat catch up, get his hopes up… then gun it again, just to fuck with him.

That’s the kind of pace they need to get back to.

The ride’s easy at first, nice and smooth, even though the freezing wind feels like somebody trying to take his ears off with a belt sander. His flimsy clothes don’t do nearly enough to cut out the cold, and the pain and numbness get so bad that for a while, he fails to notice how quiet it is. Too quiet.

Roadhog glances over at the sidecar, and just as he feared, Junkrat’s slumped limply against the rim of the sidecar. His head lolls against his shoulder, and he’s still got his arms folded awkwardly over his middle to hold the brat in place.

“Rat?” Nothing. “Hey, Rat?” He’s still silent. “C’mon, we’ve gotta hit the bank before sunup.” Yeah, he’s out cold. Junkrat’s whiter than sun-bleached bones, his angular face looking _uncomfortably_ gaunt. Roadhog mashes the brake until they skid to a stop, putting down the kickstand in the middle of the road and clambering out to get a look at the kid.

He’s already getting some grim thoughts as he approaches the sidecar, like where he’d bury the little guy. Up the road, maybe, near that empty riverbed. Roadhog’s buried plenty of people in the past, he’s not really squeamish about the idea anymore. It’s more of a dull, nonspecific ache than anything.

But Junkrat’s different. No proper burial, caskets and flowers bullshit for him. Rotting in the ground is way too slow and dreary. He’d want to _burn_.

Wringing his hands clumsily to try and warm them, Roadhod leans over the sidecar and gingerly curls his fingers around Junkrat’s neck. For a second, he’s painfully, dreadfully still. Then, he feels a wild, feeble pulse hammering away right under his thumb, along with the tiny rise and fall of Rat’s breathing. He lets go of a breath he didn’t know he was holding, stooping further to tuck the wads of loose coats and blankets around Junkrat’s face in hopes of staving off frostbite.

Not yet.

He’s not getting rid of any bodies just yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't apologize enough for the huge delay. Work, school and other problems put a damper on my energy and free time, so chapter 12 was in the works for months. Thanks to everybody who reads for their patience, and hopefully the next chapter won't take quite as long.


	13. Chapter 13

Once was kind of funny, but Junkrat’s getting real tired of this ‘waking up half dead and not knowing where he is’ shit. He tries to open his eyes for several minutes, but it feels like more effort than it’s worth. At this point, he doesn’t even know how he’s breathing, with the whole world’s moving so godawful slow. Junkrat sort of drifts back and forth on the brink of consciousness until he finally, _finally_ finds stays awake for real.

He snorts and looks around blearily, trying to sit up and get his wits about him. This place is unfamiliar to him, but the dreary, faded pastel walls and gleaming metal fixtures tell him all he needs to know. When he plants his good hand on the bed to push himself up, something stings and pulls on the inside of his wrist. Even though it feels like there’s something stuck under his skin, it doesn’t hurt like it ought to. More like a mosquito bite than having something embedded in his arm. Either he’s been drugged, he has a concussion, or both. Blinking drowsily in the stark light, Junkrat sniffs, trying to piece together which parts of the last few hours were dreams and which might’ve really happened.

The old man’s here, at least. Rat recognizes that snoring before he even spots Roadhog, crammed into a rickety armchair beside the bed with his hands folded on top of his gut. He looks like hell. There’s a big piece of gauze taped over his broad nose, and his hands are covered with bandages in odd places all over his knuckles. Something seems very wrong about this-- Junkrat’s a gimpy bastard, has been since he was a kid, but the idea of something actually hurting Roadhog feels too crazy to be true.

That, or Junkrat’s just stoned out of his mind.

“Hey, fatass.” His voice is too hoarse to shout, and Junkrat’s suddenly very aware that his prosthetics are nowhere to be seen. That thought wakes him up a little, and it sends a jolt of panic through him when he realizes he can’t get up; can’t do much more than yank the needle out and crawl if he needs to get out of here. “Hog! G-Get up, fucker.”

Is he shaking? No, Junkrat’s not that bad off. He’s alright. He can find a way out of this, he always could. Just gotta keep telling himself that until he buys it.

Finally, unable to stand the quiet, (or his own thoughts racing around in his skull,) he stretches until the tube in his arm is pulled tight and manages to grab a thick plastic cup off a tray by the bed. He winds back and throws it as hard as he can, watching as it bounces uselessly off Roadhog’s head. The big guy’s deaf as a doornail when he sleeps, but the blow is just barely enough to make him open his eyes reluctantly.

“High time! Where the hell am I?! What’s this shit?” Junkrat holds his hand up for emphasis, making a face when he bends too far and something aches, deep down in his stomach. He’s not sure he wants to look at himself below the collarbone right now. Doesn’t wanna see what they did to him yet.

“...Hospital.” Roadhog rubs his eyes wearily, his voice low and hoarse. “Had surgery a few hours ago.”

Surgery? Since when did he agree to surgery?! Junkrat bristles, deciding he’s had more than enough of this place and starting to pick the tape off his arm with his teeth. He’ll get this needle out of him, find his leg, and make a break for it-- Hog can do whatever he wants!

Before he manages to get free, though, Roadhog’s on him. (Surprisingly good reflexes for a guy his size, Junkrat will give him that.) His gigantic hand curls around Junkrat’s wrist, pulling his arm up so he can’t gnaw on his bandages anymore.

“Stop.” The big guy just keeps pulling, gentle but persistent, lifting Junkrat’s whole upper half up like a ragdoll. Probably trying to make a point or something, the bastard. “You said you’d come here, remember?”

Junkrat glares at Hog, his mind humming so fast that it takes a second for his mouth to catch up. “Said I’d _come_ , not get gutted like a fucking fish!” He wriggles angrily for emphasis, yelping in surprise when Roadhog suddenly drops him and lets him fall back on the hard, flat mattress.

“You’d be dead if they didn’t.” Roadhog folds his arms over his chest, apparently satisfied that Junkrat’s not going to make another break for it. Really ought to know better by this point.

Junkrat’s eyes roam all over, looking for a good argument, a way out. The best he can come up with is a distraction. He taps the side of his own nose for emphasis, grinning skittishly at the sight of Roadhog all trussed up like he just got a faceful of bird shot. “The hell happened to you, anyway?”

“Frostbite.” Roadhog holds his hands up, stiffly curling and uncurling his taped fingers. “Handlebars tore me up.” Without thinking, Junkrat grabs the meat of the big guy’s palm and studies the raw, callused skin like there’s something he can do about it.

He used to do stuff like this all the time, back home. The gas was scarce, and no matter how they hoarded it, it was never enough. Wouldn’t break the seal on a can for anything shy of a gutshot or a cut artery. So Junkrat looked after the old bastard, picked shrapnel out of his back, wrapped up the worst of it and wasted his best, most flammable moonshine making sure it didn’t get infected. It’s been a while since they’ve had the chance to get in so much trouble, and even longer since Roadhog needed Rat’s help with anything. He’d think something familiar would make him feel better, but he’s still queasy and dazed, completely out of it.

Wait. Junkrat’s forgetting something. He knows it’s important, too, otherwise he wouldn’t remember that he forgot. Furrowing his brow in thought, he shifts a little, absentmindedly touching the tender spot on the underside of his belly… and then it hits him. “What happened to, uh, the brat?” His memory’s getting better about that, he thinks.

“Over there.” With a lazy gesture he points out a tiny plastic bin, perched on top of a wheeled metal box. Junkrat squints and eyeballs it from all different angles, but he sure as hell doesn’t see the kid.

“In that thing?” Looks like a garage cart, all these tubes and wires and clunky machine bits hanging off of it. It makes Junkrat uneasy. “What for?”

“Keeps him warm. Helps him breathe right.” Roadhog closes his eyes again, like he’s gonna try and nod off, and Junkrat hurls another cup at him to keep him on his toes.

“He was breathin’ fine before.” Junkrat scowls at the old man. He knows that godawful contraption wasn’t his idea, but the notion that he just sat around and let it happen still pisses Rat off. For that matter, where the hell was he when they cut Junkrat open?

“No, he wasn’t. Doc says he was weak, underweight.” There’s some real irony hearing that from a guy like Roadhog, Junkrat thinks. But then he says something else that kinda sucks the comedy out of the moment. “Wouldn’t have lasted more than a week.”

Junkrat’s whole body goes slack. He starts to say something, but the words sort of die in his throat. He hates this. He hates this place, he hates seeing the kid like this, and most of all, he hates that Roadhog was right.

That’s it, that’s the last straw. Right there, he decides he’s had enough of this helpless, sickly bullshit. He’s done. He sits up in a fast, jerky motion, grabbing the metal pole by the bed and using it to prop himself up on his knee. His leg’s gotta be somewhere around here, he thinks. Hell, it’s a hospital! They’ve probably got a whole room full of shitty plastic legs somewhere. And until then, he can get around just fine like this. He’s got a crutch, he’s pumped full of drugs-- he’ll hop around this hellhole by himself until he’s back on two feet.

Right on cue, Roadhog’s giant hand comes down on his shoulder, pinning him against the wall. Junkrat’s right sick of that, too. He grabs the big guy’s forearm, his hand steady enough to saw into a live grenade without setting it off.

“Lemme go.” Junkrat doesn’t know where he’ll go or what he’ll do, but he can’t stay here. Improvising is what he does, he’ll figure something out. But after everything they’d done, everything they went through, he’d trusted Roadhog. Took his word about this place, stuck his neck out like a damned idiot, and what did he get? Hacked open and sewn back together when he was too fucked up to have any say about it.  

“No.” Roadhog sighs heavily; he acts like _he’s_ the one tired of this fight. Like he’s had it rough, taking care of useless deadweight this whole time. “What do you want? What’re you even gonna get outta tearing your stitches like a dumbass?”

“I dunno, I can’t--”

“Can’t stay. I know.” Without warning, Roadhog bends down by the side of the bed, looming over Junkrat and easily blocking him from getting up. Anyone else, it’d be claustrophobic. Junkrat feels that surge of instinct to start fighting, to reach up and claw the fucker’s eyes out, to kick hard with his good leg and try to make a break for it. But Hog’s careful. He seems to see Rat’s breathing pick up and stops, straightening up again and gently grabbing a hold of Junkrat’s hand. “...Just a little longer.”

Dammit.

Junkrat wants to keep fighting so bad. Go out with a bang, he always said. He’ll die on his feet, guns a-blazing.

But _God_ , is he tired. He made the mistake of trusting Roadhog once, and for whatever reason, he’s got this crazy urge to do it again. It’s hard, and he sure as hell doesn’t like it, but he’s too doped up and exhausted to resist. His hand curls around the old man’s massive thumb pitifully, careful of the thick bandages around his fingers, and he sags back against the wall in defeat.

“I got one condition.” If he’s going to fold, he’s at least getting something out of it. Then they can drug him or carve him up or do whatever they want to him, and Roadhog can sit back and watch. “I wanna see it.”

“See what?”

“The kid. I wanna see it.” It’s just… bothering Junkrat. Looking at that metal cart thing and not being able to see inside. He shifts uneasily, trying to prop himself up against Hog’s arm.

“I dunno…” Roadhog lets Junkrat climb on him, resting a hand on his back until he’s sitting upright again.

“They left ‘im in here, didn’t they? Can’t be too bad off.” That’s another thing that’s fucking with Junkrat. He was expecting to have the kid grabbed up by some suits the minute he staggered in the door, and that would be it. He wouldn’t have to think about it anymore. But now the brat’s just sitting there, a few steps away, and Junkrat can’t even get to him. It’s driving him nuts!

Roadhog glances back at the metal bin quietly-- Junkrat swears, just for a second, he sees a glint of something like anxiety in his face. (But that can’t be right. This is Roadhog, he’s never scared of anything.) The big guy hesitates, looking Junkrat up and down like he’s trying to come up with an argument. He doesn’t find one. “...Okay.”

Junkrat wriggles in anticipation, drumming his hand on the bed and watching intensely as Hog trudges over to the metal box and lifts the baby out. The sight of him makes Junkrat want to puke: he’s got bandages, too. What’s wrong with a kid that small that somebody saw fit to jam him full of needles? He knows he did a shit job making him, no questions asked, but it’s only just sinking in that it’s his fault the kid’s like this now.

Junkrat can’t help shuddering in dread, even when Hog reluctantly sets the squirming thing down on his lap. He hunches over the baby immediately, running his hand over a patch of soft black hair before trailing down to squeeze a tiny mitt. Somehow, even though he’s only had the brat for a few days, it all seems so familiar to him. Like holding a gun that he built from the schematics up, knowing how the grip’s supposed to fit in his hand. Something that’s distinctly _his_.

“Doc says he’s not eating much.” Roadhog looms over the bed, like he expects Junkrat to drop the kid or something. (Sure, he might’ve come close a few times over the last couple days, but those were all accidents!) “Barely ate at the shack.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Feigning like he knew that, Junkrat goes with the urge to keep prodding, carefully pinching the baby’s tiny ear. He doesn’t know why, but he likes it. He wants to study the creature in his hand as much as they’ll let him. Junkrat deserves that, right? He made the damn thing!

“He’s supposed to stay warm...” All Roadhog has to do is bend a little too close and Junkrat snaps at him, grabbing the baby to his chest possessively. Maybe he’s holding it wrong, with his hand on the middle of the kid’s back and his belly pinned against Junkrat’s chest. Hell if he knows. But he hunches his shoulders, making it clear he’ll absolutely bite or headbutt if he has to. Hog knows better than to call his bluff. He… quietly flips the brat right-side-up, then immediately goes back to his glaring.

The more he thinks about it, the less he’s sold on this whole plan. Sure, they’ve been sticking to it for a while now, but improvising is what Junkrat does! What if this kid turns out to be a wasted opportunity? Hell, maybe he’d be good for their jobs! A perfect ‘innocent’ hostage to be their bargaining chip, their _inside man_ , their human shield. (He’d be in on it, of course. Junkrat’s a good boss, he’d give the little shit a cut.)

“Rack off! I got ‘im.” Junkrat hisses, clumsily hiking up his papery dress thing and stuffing the kid underneath. He can keep him warm! He can look out for him! Nobody needs to touch this brat without his say-so! He can…

The bug-eyed, feral expression on his face dies down immediately. There’s this… nasty wet, pulling feeling at his nipple. It stings, and it doesn’t let up, and Junkrat ends up tearing a big gash in his hospital dress to get a look at what the hell the kid’s doing. The little shit’s sucking on him like a leech!

“What the hell?!” Junkrat doesn’t let anybody just… well, no, he lets Roadie do that sometimes, but not anybody else! He hisses, trying to pry himself free, but the brat takes that as a cue to clamp down, sending a searing jolt of pain through Rat’s chest and making him shudder nauseously. It takes him a second to gear up to try and yank the kid off again, and this time, it’s Roadhog that stops him, putting a hand on his shoulder and holding him steady.

“Wait!” Roadhog gawks down at the baby, suddenly looking a lot more awake than he’s been since they got here. “Don’t move him.”

“How come?! Little monster’s trying to bite a chunk outta me!” Junkrat cringes deeply as a weird new feeling shoots through his chest, like a dropping, sinking sensation. “L-Look at this!” He hikes the stupid dress up with his stump to show Roadhog, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

“He’s eating.” Apparently Junkrat looks as lost as he feels, cause Hog takes the hint and keeps talking, even though he makes it sound like a huge pain in the ass. “Don’t tell me you’ve never seen a woman feed a baby.”

“No babies in Oz, hadn’t exactly been lookin’ at-- Ah! Bugger me!” It hurts! Junkrat winces, hunching over the brat until he’s curled up in the tightest ball he can manage without laying down. The baby makes a funny noise but doesn’t stop, and Junkrat has to think he’s getting whatever blood he had left in him sucked right out.

“Ugh, okay. A kid gets milk from their mother, and--”

“What? Nah, mate. That doesn’t make sense.” Milk comes from cans in Straya, and they get the stuff in the can from a cow. That’s common sense! Junkrat groans, looking down at himself and grimacing when he notices his chest leaking some kind of thin, white stuff. Stuff that _may_ be milk.

...Whatever it is, he’s definitely had it with Roadhog being right. He wrinkles his nose, squirming moodily to try and get comfortable with the kid sucking on him like a damn piglet. (Heh, piglet.) It’s not so bad, once the shock wears off. Just unpleasant and boring. Compared to all the other shit he’s been through, Junkrat doesn’t mind it. He sighs raggedly, sagging back against the chilly plastic headboard and watching the little monster go to town.

It’s almost too quiet, but for once, Roadhog speaks up to fill the silence first. “You gotta sign something.”

“What for?” Junkrat isn’t on any grid, doesn’t want to be. He signs his name on stuff he made, and sometimes on stuff he blew up. That’s how he likes it.

The old man holds up a piece of paper, full of fine print and legal jargon Junkrat is way too tired to feign interest in. He squints at it for a second and scoffs, turning his attention back to the brat as Roadhog continues. “The hospital won’t take the kid without your word. They need either a signature or proof you’re nuts, and the first one’s probably easier.”

“Yeah, yeah. Leave it there.” Junkrat makes it sound like he might sign it, but he’s not making any promises. He doesn’t want his name in their systems-- who knows what else they could find out about him like that?

Something about all this sits wrong with him. Feels like a stiff deal: he almost died, got his innards all mangled and let the doctors chop him up worse, and for what? A weird scar on his belly, a few years off his life, a nice pair of almost-tits? He tightens his hold on the kid a little, glancing around suspiciously, as the idea hits him.

He hasn’t said shit yet. The suits can’t do any more to him without permission, can they? Junkrat doesn’t care either way.

This kid is _his_. And nobody takes anything that’s his without a damn good fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas! I know, it's a weird day for updating a kink fic, but hey, I work with the time I'm given. 
> 
> If everything sticks to the outline, this should be the second-to-last chapter. The finale is probably going to be a whopper lengthwise! Thanks so much to everyone for staying around this long. Your hits, kudos and comments all mean the world to me!


	14. Finale

A few hours, a long nap. and a generous helping of narcotics have really done a lot for Rat’s mood. All of the sudden, he’s as friendly as he ever gets-- suspiciously friendly. The little shit even thanked a nurse for bringing him a new leg! Something’s clearly wrong with him. ...Well, something new to pile on that trash fire.  

Sitting cross-legged on the bed, Junkrat’s occupied himself with a pile of cheap flick lighters from his duffel. He whistles tunelessly as he works, something Rat _thinks_ is Beethoven, opening the fuel reservoirs with a pen knife and emptying the liquid into a battered plastic canteen. (The canteen is caked with marker scrawlings of “DONT DRINK THIS”, “NOT WATER”, and doodles of skulls and explosions.)

Roadhog, on the other hand, has a hard time finding anything to be cheery about. Or tolerating Junkrat’s cheeriness, for that matter. His back aches from the chair, he’s missing bits of skin on his hands and face, and the oppressive hospital atmosphere is starting to make him ornery. And the real side effect of those drugs in Rat’s system is that the little bastard just. Won’t. Shut up.

“That’s butane, mate. Don’t smell much, not a lotta force, but it burns real pretty. Fireworks! Heh. Make it into a spray, barbeque anything in sight.” He keeps fidgeting with his knife when he’s out of lighters, toying with the hinge as he rambles. “You ever held a flamethrower, mate? ‘S like fire ‘n brimstone, shootin’ outta Satan’s arse  _magic_. You’re a force of nature, a fuckin’ Greek god or something, but just for--”

“We’re leaving today.” Roadhog cuts him off, knowing that he can keep going like this for hours if somebody lets him. “Gotta get back on the road.”

“...Right. Yeah. I knew that.” Junkrat twirls the knife on the end of his finger, (he insists on using his flesh and blood hand,) trying to balance it on the blade and immediately dropping it into his lap. Only years of practice allows the dipshit to do this without stabbing himself. Much. “Sounds good.”

“Forget the signatures.” It’d be a waste of time, and besides, it’s not like they’d be signing their real names. They use fake ones when they’re supposed to be laying low. Junkrat has way too much fun coming up with them: he insisted on being ‘Richard Long’ this time. Roadhog got his name, ‘Henderson’, off a TV dinner box. “We’ll just leave the… brat in the bin, not like they can hunt us down and force us to take it.”

“...Yeah. Yeah, got it.” Junkrat abruptly gets quiet. Too quiet for Roadhog’s liking. He likes the relief from the constant bullshit, sure, but it never bodes well when the kid suddenly decides to stop talking.

Before Roadhog can give it much thought, there’s a stiff knock on the door, and a thin, grim-looking woman in scrubs steps through. Same doctor who tried to get a look at Junkrat’s stitches without asking; it’s only thanks to Roadhog’s reflexes and grip that she doesn’t have a black eye. She glances around like a spooked animal, making sure Rat’s in bed before gesturing with her clipboard for Roadhog to come closer.

He stands reluctantly, following her out to the hall but keeping his back to the door. Force of habit, he guards the door to any room that only has one exit.   

The doctor speaks softly, gingerly, like anything could set Roadhog off. “Mister Henderson? We need to talk about your… uh... “ She clears her throat, obviously afraid to draw any conclusions about what to call Junkrat and Roadhog’s relationship. That’s smart of her. “About Mr. Long.” Roadhog has to admit, he missed the feeling of talking to someone who’s openly terrified of him.

“It can wait til he’s healed up.” He doesn’t like the idea of going behind the kid’s back, especially not with medical stuff. If he’s falling apart even worse than they thought, Rat has a right to know.

“Well, in his current condition, we’re concerned he may not have the… mental clarity to handle this sort of news.” The doctor fiddles with her clipboard childishly. Who is this trainee, anyway? She looks younger than Junkrat. “Besides, it might be easier for him to hear it from somebody he knows.”

Roadhog doesn’t say anything, just nods and folds his arms over his chest. Someone who didn’t know him might think that he’s acting out of worry, but the truth is, he’s just resisting the urge to deck this woman. Getting the police called on them wouldn’t help with the whole escape strategy.

“I’m so sorry to tell you this, we wanted to wait until he recovered a little more, but…” She hesitates, glancing down in a way that sets a particularly bleak tone. “The truth is-- uh, w-without extensive transplant operations, I mean-- the truth is that Mr. Long won’t be able to have another child.”

“What.” Is… is she serious? That’s _it?_  

“I’m sorry, I know it’s hard to hear. I wouldn’t rule anything out down the road, but with Mr. Long’s current health problems, and the amount of tissue we had to remove--”

Roadhog cuts her off with a coarse, booming laugh. He just loses it for a second, dropping his head into his hand and cracking up like a maniac. Feels like he should be tearing the doc’s head off for jerking him around like that, but all he can think about is these people’s _fucked up_ priorities. (Who the hell would look at Jamie and think ‘poor guy probably wanted a whole litter’?)

“I, uh… It’s normal to feel shocked, when you get news like--”

“No, no.” Still wheezing a little, Roadhog shakes his head. “He’s fine.” Junkrat’s gonna get a kick out of this. This total nightmare he went through, all the times he nearly died, and these quacks feel bad that he doesn’t get to do it again.

“The damage wouldn’t have been so bad if it weren’t for the miscarriages…” The doctor pauses, startling very slightly like she just caught herself saying too much.

“What?” Roadhog stops grinning real fast. Either his hearing is worse than he thought, or there’s something she and the other doctors got wrong. Really wrong.

“W-Well, yes.” She sighs, taking on the stringent tone of somebody trying to explain complicated things to a little kid. “His surgery showed a type of scar tissue that only forms from damage to the uterine wall; he had to be pregnant at least once in the past. Frankly, it’s a miracle he was able to carry so close to term.”  

The empty hallway is suffocatingly quiet for a minute. It’s a thought that never even occurred to Mako. The kid’s funny in the head, sure, but he’s not stupid. He’d know about something like that, right? He’d figure it out on his own.

...Except he might not. Junkrat doesn’t know shit about medicine. He shrugs off anything that doesn’t physically stop him and force him to acknowledge it. Back in the outback, there were days when he’d cough up blood-- old birdshot buried deep in his lung somewhere-- and he’d just ignore it like a geezer on his deathbed. “What doesn’t kill me, ey, Piggy?” Roadhog can still hear him saying it, every other day, a mantra, a stupid fucking chant that he’d used to get comfortable with shaving years off his life.

“...I’m sorry, I thought you knew.” It takes a second for him to start paying attention again.

“No.” There’s nothing else to be said here, Mako thinks. Either Junkrat never knew what happened, and learning would just screw him up worse, or he did know and kept it to himself. It would take a horrible, _violent_ thing to compel Rat to keep his mouth shut, and no good could come from digging it up now.

“W-Well, uh, the good news is that he _is_ recovering. The surgery went well, we’ve got him on biotics, along with several drugs to try and flush some of the toxins from his system. We’re concerned about the high levels of radiation--”

“How long.”

“Excuse me?”

“How long until we can leave?” They know who Junkrat and Roadhog are. They have to. The shitty disguises are enough to get them through convenience stores and motel check-ins, but these people have seen too much. Rat has his tattoo, his old arm, a million distinguishing scars that all got cataloged in prison. Roadhog can only assume the worst about the hospital’s plans, and he’s ready to carry the idiot from here to Toronto if he has to.

He promised they weren’t going back to prison, and he knows Junkrat will never forgive him if that promise doesn’t hold out.

“We’ll need at least five or six days before we can discharge him, and that’s not counting return visits for medication, physical therapy--”

Okay, apparently Mako has to translate for himself. “Will he _die_ if he leaves before that?”

“Well, uh... no, but he’s really not in any condition to travel. He did just have major surgery, so there’s the risk of infection, or he could tear his stitches, or...”

Roadhog stops listening after that. They can handle that stuff on their own; not a Junker alive who doesn’t know how to take care of wounds. He turns back to the room, planning to ignore the doctor and start packing up… but the door’s cracked.

Since when is the fucking door cracked?

Roadhog throws it open, a jolt of dread running through him when he sees that both the bed and the incubator box are empty. Rat’s prosthetics and duffel bag are gone, too.

“Mr. Henderson? Is something… oh. Oh, no.” Yeah, no shit. The doctor’s voice trails off into stunned silence as she connects the dots, and she starts punching something in on her tablet frantically. There’s no way they didn’t have Junkrat on some kind of psych watch, just like they did in jail. (‘Fine line between genius and insanity’, he’d always say.)

Where’s the jackass even going? He’s got to be limping around on that plastic leg, carrying the brat under one arm like a football. Can’t get far before somebody stops him.

“D-Do you have any idea where he’d go?” Yeah, the doctors knew who he was. Roadhog wouldn’t surprised if there’s an entire SWAT team waiting outside for them, and odds are, the only thing keeping the snipers off Junkrat is using the kid as a shield. Great.

“Stay here.” Mako’s not telling her anything. God knows they don’t have to make this any easier for the cops. He turns and stomps down the hall, following the quietest route and keeping an eye out for any sign of wanton destruction. It’s not like Junkrat to be stealthy. The smash-and-grab approach has worked fine up until now: he’s got to be desperate if he’s willing to resort to squeezing into vents and crawling through back alleys. Too much like the life he had as a kid.

Finally, Roadhog picks up the trail. He was supposed to have an eye for this sort of thing, back when he was an enforcer, but he’s gotten rusty from years of causing the trouble instead of stopping it. There’s an overturned bin in one corridor, and down the hall, the sound of a door slamming shut. The handle jiggles from the inside, somebody conspicuously trying to lock or jam it. Junkrat’s out of practice, too.

“Hey.” Roadhog grabs the door handle and pulls it open, easily yanking it free of the resistance on the other side. (Junkrat is, apparently, still stupid enough to think he can just hold the door and somehow block Roadhog from getting in.) He pulls until he’s dragging Junkrat forward with the door, then nearly rips the damn thing off its hinges when Rat lets go and scrambles to the back of the room.

“Fuck off! I ain’t going anywhere!” Rat looks... more lucid now, actually. Scary lucid, by his standards. His eyes are wild and alert, and sure enough, he’s got the kid pinned to his chest like a pipe bomb he smuggled into a police station. At first, Roadhog thinks he’s just been running blindly down the halls, looking for a way out. ...Then he sees the tangle of wires scattered around the little guy’s bare foot.

“What did you do?”

There’s no manic giggling, no proud smirk. Nothing. Junkrat is dead silent as he uncurls his mechanical hand, revealing a flimsy detonator. Roadhog’s almost afraid to ask what it’s hooked up to.

“...Said you were tapped out.” Roadhog distinctly remembers the little guy bitching for hours after the stump incident, saying he’d wasted his ammo, asking what they’d do if somebody tried to corner them in that shithole cabin.

His voice eerily steady and controlled, Junkrat shrugs. “Thought it didn’t matter. I was dead either way, right?” Pretty lame excuse.

Roadhog glances at the detonator, silently asking what kind of contraption Junkrat’s threatening him with. For once in his life, Junkrat actually catches the goddamn hint.

“...Oxygen tanks." His voice cracks a little, like he tries to laugh and gives up almost immediately. “They don’t really explode, mate, that’s a myth. But they burn right good. Pop like balloons from the pressure.” Quick mechanical fingers toy with the detonator switch; he can literally see Junkrat thinking.

“Ready to cook yourself, huh? Take the whole building down with you?” It sounds too crazy, even for Junkrat, but there’s no real upward limit to how stupid he can get. Junkrat looks at him like a cornered animal, eyes darting back and forth in search of some opening he can squeeze through. It makes Roadhog nauseous when he realizes that Rat’s looking at him the same way he looked at the prison staff.

“...Just to keep the cops off. Talk a big game. Tell ‘em I’ll burn the place down if they fuck with us--”

“With _you_.” If Mako’s the bad guy now, he might as well lean into it. “I’m not in on whatever batshit crazy plan you have here.”

Junkrat gives him a pained look, sheepishly adjusting his hold on the kid. His knuckles are white, every muscle in his arm tense. “...Gettin’ out of here, Hoggy. With or without ya.”

“To go where? What do you think you’re gonna do?” He could hotwire something from the parking garage, sure, but then what? Junkrat’s got trouble with plans to begin with, but this is flimsy even for him.

“Fuck, I dunno! Toronto! Boston! Mexico! I’ll get on a boat. Yeah. I’ll head to Europe. Get out of the heat for a while.”

“With a sick kid. While you can barely walk.” Roadhog recognizes the way the little bastard moves. It’s just like the night they were ambushed, right after he lost his leg: frantic and weak, running on pure adrenaline. It’s the same as staggering around with a shitty handmade crutch. There’s no way he can keep it up long.

Junkrat pauses for a minute, squirming like he wants to fidget, touch his face or mess with his hair, but his hands are full. Then he actually manages to surprise Hog with his answer.

“...What else am I supposed ta do?” The look on his face isn’t panicky or defensive-- it’s _desperate_ , his eyes huge as he looks up at Roadhog slowly. “Sell ‘im off for nothing? Let some strangers do what they want to him, bring him up not knowing where he came from?”

“Yeah.” Roadhog replies coldly, taking a step closer and slamming the door behind him. Junkrat doesn’t have anywhere to get away from him. “Cause otherwise, he’ll turn out like you.”

“Hey, fuck you! Where do you get--”

“You want him to live like a Junker? Eating trash, no real doctors, deaf from gunshots by the time he’s fifteen?” Taking another step, Roadhog advances on Jamie menacingly. He doesn’t have a choice: he knows threatening Junkrat is the only way to get him to listen at this point. “When’d you lose that hand, Rat? You were eight, weren’t you?”

Balling his hand into a fist around the detonator, Junkrat backs up until he’s pinned against the wall, surrounded by oxygen tanks. He grinds the heel of his metal palm into his forehead, tears welling up in his eyes.

“T-This ain’t Junkertown! He’d have it better. We’re rich as kings, Hoggy, we could make it good for ‘im.” Junkrat’s voice trembles as he hunches around the kid, like he’s trying to shield the tiny thing with his own body. God, it’s hard to watch.

“It wouldn’t work. A kid can’t handle the way we live.” Travelling day and night, the constant threat of police raids-- it’d be impossible for a baby, much less a sickly one. “You’re smart enough to know that.”

“Then we hide out somewhere! Yeah! Go back to the cabin, stay put until… until…” Junkrat fumbles for words, curling into himself so that he’s nearly doubled over. It’s too much-- Roadhog can’t stomach it. He reaches out and gently grabs Rat’s shoulder, and instead of recoiling away, the little guy leans into him a bit.  

“It wouldn’t. Work.” Roadhog talks real slow, not because Junkrat’s too dumb to understand, but because he’s smart. He’s trying to come up with a million different plans right now, find some way to make this work, and it’s overwhelming just to _imagine_ it. That’s how Junkrat lives. He thinks constantly about twenty things at once and struggles to process it all into something that’s coherent to anyone other than him.

Rat bites his lip, shaking his head helplessly. He’s actually running out of things to say. The baby finally lapses from whining into real squalling, and Junkrat fumbles to try and hold him better. He ends up balancing the detonator switch (which may or may not be hooked up, Roadhog knows better than to call his bluff,) in the crook of his elbow so he can hold the kid in both hands.

“You’re sick, hurt, and high as a kite. You’re not thinking straight.” Playing the good cop angle feels scummy now, but they _are_ on the same side. All Roadhog’s doing is being that little voice of reason that Junkrat never learned to have on his own.

The baby keeps wailing, shrill and startlingly loud, and Junkrat’s clumsy attempts to calm him down are useless. He sort of monkeys the motions he’s seen people use to soothe babies, awkwardly jiggling him instead of bouncing or rocking, and combing his fingers over the kid’s wispy patch of hair. It’s a sickeningly gentle gesture, coming from the guy who once shattered somebody’s jawbone with his elbow in one shot.

“...The joint’s surrounded, innit?” Typical. Junkrat’s trying to change the subject, taking one last shot at wriggling out of this. His bulging, watery eyes say ‘we can talk about this later, _really_ , I’ll listen’ even though they both know he won’t.

“Probably. Not gonna make it out of here with the kid, that’s for sure.” Their options are limited enough as is. They could try using a hostage, a respected member of society like a doctor or nurse, but then Junkrat would ask ‘why not the brat?’ and they don’t have time to start this fight over again. Outside of ‘light shit on fire and hope for the best’, Roadhog doesn’t really know what to do.

This is why Jamie always came up with the plans; Roadhog just doesn’t have the same kind of creativity. You can give him a gun and a metal pipe and tell him to wipe out a whole gang, and he’ll do it, no problem. But knowing which gangs to target, when and why, what the ultimate game is? That’s a pain in the ass. Junkrat’s plans are things of beauty. They’re shortsighted and grandiose, simple and somehow genius. The kind of thing only somebody already unhinged could ever come up with.

They need that kind of thinking here, and Roadhog’s not sure if the little guy can manage that right now. Of course, the shrieking distraction in his arms isn’t helping their odds.

“We’re running out of time, Rat.” Roadhog holds his hand out, offering to take the baby. Junkrat takes a long time to respond, hanging his head and swallowing, but he does eventually turn the kid over. His hands keep trembling, even when Roadhog holds the tiny creature in his palm. It feels like he’s been hit by a truck as Junkrat reaches out to try and grab the baby, forcing Roadhog to keep him at arm’s length by grabbing his shoulder.

For once, Jamie gives up fighting him. He does so much worse than that, just giving Roadhog an exhausted, miserable look and following behind him in silence. The halls are suspiciously quiet, like this part of the hospital has been evacuated. Not surprising, but still a bad sign. All the doors are shut tight, and the first one Roadhog tries is locked. The din of sirens in the distance was subtle at first, enough that he could pretend they were unrelated to their little appearance here, but now they’re too close and numerous to miss.

He props the brat up against his shoulder gingerly, like he’s carrying a fragile piece of pottery or an antique crown, and leads the way toward the stairwell.

Roadhog is confident that the building’s surrounded, or at least clogged by blockades at every possible exit. The normal commotion of a hospital-- footsteps, medical instruments, voices-- has all petered out uncannily fast. For a while, Rat follows obediently, but it’s not in his nature to do stuff without asking questions. Always was an annoying habit of his.

“Where the hell we goin’?” His limping footsteps are prominent, especially with the effort of carrying whatever’s left of his supplies. “You still got the kid…” The way he says that lets a tiny bit of hope slip into his tone, like he thinks Roadhog’s had second thoughts. Roadhog crushes that idea fast.

“Gonna drop him off downstairs. Snipers won’t risk firing as long as he’s with us.” Fuck it all. From now on, Mako is the guy with the plan.

By the time they make it down to the first floor (switching stairwells after a couple of levels, just in case there’s ambush waiting at the bottom of the steps,) Roadhog’s more or less leading Junkrat around by the arm. The little guy’s a long way from healed; every now and then he has to stop and lean on Hog to catch his breath. Roadhog takes the bags from him, heedless of his complaints, and leads him to what he thinks is an empty nurses’ station.

The only sign of life there is a small, heavyset woman behind the counter, standing calmly with a tablet in her hand. She’s wearing scrubs, (not the best for concealing a weapon, but probably doable,) and acts almost like she’s been waiting for them to reach her.

“Can I help you?” Her tone is startlingly calm. She’s a police plant, right? Has to be.

“No.” Roadhog turns to push past the counter, ignoring her.

“Are you still planning to surrender him?” That question does make Roadhog pause, but he snaps out of it fast. She just read their files, that’s all. Hell, he wouldn’t be surprised if the whole ward was bugged.

Roadhog nods stiffly, shifting his hand slightly to show that he’s still carrying the brat. There aren’t any windows in this room, no space for snipers. Interesting.

“I can take him, if you want.” The nurse is making a deliberate effort not to provoke them, keeping her distance but also standing her ground. Watching her makes Roadhog wonder if she’s even scared of them, especially when she puts her hands out to take the kid.

It seems too good to be true, but Roadhog sees an opportunity here. After all, he was just gonna put the kid somewhere safe where the staff would find him. That’s what they do in the Americas, right? Dump kids at fire stations doorsteps and such. This would save them some crucial time. But when he moves to turn the brat over, Rat bristles like a mangy dog-- Roadhog has to block him with an elbow before he makes a jump at the nurse. She flinches slightly, but doesn’t try to bolt: her hesitation feels like a solid sign that she’s not law enforcement.

When Junkrat continues his squirming, muttering ‘not her’ and ‘let’s make a break for it’ and other psychotic bullshit, Roadhog realizes he has to cut him down again. “What else can we do, Jamie? Drop him down a laundry chute?”

The little guy worries his lip, drumming his fingers on Roadhog’s arm like he’s trying to force himself to think faster. Like he’s not already operating at top capacity. Finally, he groans and drops his head into his hand, and Roadhog takes that as permission to go ahead. He holds the baby with one hand, balancing him gently in his palm, and turns him over to the nurse. She knows better than to grab, and she’s watching Junkrat more than the kid, but she takes the tiny, whining thing and holds him on his back, normal and proper. It seems right.

There’s a pause, somewhere between Roadhog pulling Junkrat back toward him and the nurse making a break for it. Just before something can happen, though, Jamie’s grim, shaky voice breaks up the silence.

“It’s Jamison.” Rat coughs, clutching Roadhog’s arm with both hands. Hard to say if he needs the balance that bad. “‘Is name. It’s Jamison.” He gives the nurse that miserable, sickly look, his eyes so big they might fall out of his head. The grip on Roadhog’s arm tightens.

“...Got it. Jamison.” The nurse nods, backing away a bit to make sure she’s got some space before she’s willing to turn her back on them. She disappears through an automated staff door, and that’s the last they see of her or the baby. It’s quick and unceremonious, just like Roadhog wanted.

He tugs lightly on Junkrat’s good arm to lead him away, and he follows skittishly. Eerily, deadly quiet, he just hangs around like a shadow. Roadhog actually has to prompt him to talk again.

“What’s next?” There’s nothing Rat likes more than being in charge, getting free reign to come up with his harebrained ideas. And right now, Roadhog is… uncomfortable enough with the silence that he’s willing to invite Junkrat to do something stupid.

But he doesn’t say anything. He sticks close to Roadhog, and peers down the corridors for SWAT teams that sound way too close, but he’s missing the jittery touches and excitable giggling that makes Mako want to strangle him. He prods Rat again, pointing to an open supply closet and elbowing him to get his attention.

There’s a map on the wall, detailing the fire escape routes. Here’s their chance to blast a way to freedom. Junkrat couldn’t resist explosives when he was bleeding to death, his leg freshly lopped off, and Roadhog doubts he can resist them now.

“...Yeah.” Jamie leads the way into the storeroom, taking his bag and starting to tap and fiddle and test at things with calm, mechanical precision. He’s an expert when he wants to be, and Roadhog lets him work, guarding the door like he’s done a hundred times before. “Exterior wall. It comes down, we got a door outside.” Never looking up, Junkrat manages to put together this godless mass of wires and plastic explosives, plus gunpowder, some kind of plasma capsule, and Roadhog can’t even guess what else. So much for being tapped out on supplies.

“Right, then. Step back.” There’s something deeply disturbing about watching Junkrat connect the detonator and pad out the door without an ounce of joy or excitement. He just marches back to the other side of the barren hallway, waiting emptily for Roadhog to catch up. Junkrat doesn’t even react when he hits the switch, and the force is enough to knock him off his feet-- shit, he’s supposed to _love_ that.

Hog helps him up while the dust clears, stepping through the crumbling hole in the wall and yanking Junkrat along with him. There’s a couple of bodies near the edge of the blast radius, floored but still moving among the clumps of plaster. They nearly step on one of the poor bastards on their way out, breaking into a clumsy sprint over piles of debris.

There are a couple of bodies near the edge of the blast radius, floored but still moving among the clumps of plaster. Roadhog doesn't waste time taking in the damage, dragging Junkrat with him as the sound of voices coming around the corner of the alleyway grow louder. He can hear heavy boots and the clatter of riot gear, but they manage to say just ahead of them-- just out of sight, until they stumble upon a parking garage.

Rat, to his credit, doesn’t miss a beat. He takes advantage of his new position to unzip his bag, unloading a pair of flickering proximity mines around the main gate. The police freeze, a couple of them physically tripping over each other to keep from bounding straight into the mines. That buys them a little time, at least until the riot team makes it to the other entrance on the opposite side of the building. It pains him to admit it, but they’re not gonna make it to the alley where Roadhog stashed his bike. They’ll have to make do with what they have.

Without a word, Junkrat wriggles free and hobbles off into the dim parking lot. He weaves randomly between the rows of cars to get ahead of the cops, looking around for a good target to hotwire. Jamie dives under a gaudy chrome Harley, starting to unscrew panels on the chassis and gouge out bits of wiring with alarming speed and precision. The bike starts to sputter and smoke, and all Junkrat has to do is give it a sharp blow with his fist to get the engine running proper.

“The hell’re you doing?!” If they have a garage full of cars, why the fuck would he try and steal the only motorcycle in sight? “You’ll get thrown!”

“I got it! Just fuckin’ drive!” Rat barks at him with no humor or levity in his voice, scrambling to his feet and glancing at Roadhog expectantly. It takes him a moment to realize that Junkrat’s waiting for Hog to get on the bike, making it easier to climb onto the seat behind him. There’s a bar that might keep him from tumbling off, but if he’s not strong enough to get up on the damn bike, he shouldn’t be riding.

“Not happening. Pick another one.” Roadhog reaches out, moving to pull Junkrat away, but the little guy grabs his hand and squeezes hard enough to sting.

“We don’t have time, damn it! Just…” Jamison grimaces, flashing his jagged teeth as he breathes. “Give me this, will ya?” He hangs his head, a few tangled, uneven strands of hair falling into his face. When he talks again, his voice breaks and catches slightly. “Just give me this one _fucking_ thing.”

Shit. He’s doing that thing again. Looking at Roadhog like he’s a fucking jailer.

After a horrible pause, Roadhog can’t take it anymore. He doesn’t say anything, just nods stiffly, letting Junkrat clamber onto the bike. Without that grotesque cannonball stomach in the way, Rat fits neatly against his back again. It’s a familiar feeling, and Roadhog can almost see why he’d risk getting raked over the asphalt for it.

There’s nothing left for either of them to say, really. Roadhog revs the engine and takes off, planning to ride south for a few more hours, and pretends not to notice the way Junkrat’s clinging to him needlessly tight. He knows the little guy’s proud, and he knows that he wouldn’t want Roadhog to call attention to it. Not when he feels a bony cheek pressed into the muscle between his shoulder blades. Not even when he hears the thinnest, most exhausted sob.

He just keeps his hand on the throttle. That’s how they survived in the desert: moving forward, leaving behind anything they couldn’t carry. Junkrat and Roadhog, two men against the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is! A year and a half and about 33,000 words down, we've finally made it to the last chapter and conclusion of "Vermin". (Incidentally, I've also gone back and made a few slight stylistic changes to older chapters. Nothing glaring, probably not even noticeable, just a few tweaks to make certain passages flow better.)
> 
> I just wanted to take some space here to say thank you to everyone who made it this far-- thank you for your patience, thank you for your input, and thank you so much for reading! I feel incredibly lucky that this work has received so much attention and so many kind words. 
> 
> A special thanks to my good friend, beta reader and editor over at kittenmittens! This fic would be literally impossible without her help-- or at the very least, it'd be significantly shittier and perpetually unfinished.
> 
> Thanks again to everyone! I hope you've enjoyed the ride. c:


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